


One That's True and Bold

by sapphicwonder



Series: MYRA TREVELYAN: THE ONE WHO LOVED [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Background Relationships, Chronic Illness, Denial of Feelings, Disabled Character, Dragon Age: Inquisition Inner Circle is Found Family, Families of Choice, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor (Dragon Age) is not the Protagonist, MGiT, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Neruodivergent Herald, Neurodivergency, Non-Binary Lesbian, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, neurodivergent, yes I have invisible disabilities that you'll see throughout the story, young herald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicwonder/pseuds/sapphicwonder
Summary: [MGiT with a flavor of self-insert for my own indulgence. Last re-upload for changes, I promise. Shorter chapters this time.]What if there were two inside the Fade instead of one? Liz must take up the mantle of Herald. Myra Trevelyan, once a Chantry guard, must relearn everything she abandoned if she wants to make sure they survive until the end of this bitter, bitter war.Liz is a displaced wanderer too far from home and a too big responsibility on their shoulders; by false-Gods and Prophets whose lips don't move, they resign themselves to the title they never imagined themselves having: the Hero. It's ironic, really. Every quiz they ever took always said they'd be a side-character. The comedic relief. Now their role in their own life is about to change forever.Myra is a lost woman who doesn't know how to guide herself without her brother. They're two halves of the same whole, they compliment and complete each other, and without him she feels like a bird with a broken wing. Enter the aftermath of the Conclave, the formation of the Inquisition, and the re-introduction of Cassandra into her life -- well, Varric did say this shit got weird.
Relationships: Dragon Age: Inner Circle & Inquisitor, Dragon Age: Inquisition Companions & Herald, Dragon Age: Inquisition Companions & Inquisitor, Dragon Age: Inquisition Ensemble & Herald, Dragon Age: Inquisition Inner Circle & Original Female Character(s), Modern Character in Thedas & Dragon Age: Inquistion Inner Circle, Modern Girl in Thedas & Dragon Age: Inquisition Inner Circle, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Series: MYRA TREVELYAN: THE ONE WHO LOVED [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618822
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remains, the terror, the Conclave. Two people who felt born for nothing are shoved underneath the spotlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *main character uses she/they pronouns and is based on how i myself identify with them; i am both they/them and she/her simultaneously, and either are applicable! its how im comfortable writing the story  
> This is the last re-upload. If I become frustrated with aspects of the story again I'm just going to scrap it and say good riddance and start another project I've wanted to do, because my hyperfixation on getting this done and perfect is going to kill me eventually, I swear. Anyway, enjoy a way better version of 'Be Not Afraid' with way shorter chapters.

**[Post-Corypheus, Tevinter 9:43]**

Trill winds blow through the sparse buildings around the port, just as rotted and shady as it is functionally. A young woman of barely twenty years sits alone on the rooftop, fully aware of how dramatic the scene probably looks and counting it as another reason to sulk. She’s running — and _yes,_ she said she wouldn’t. But just... hear her out first?

 _Hear_ me _out first. I had a rough start here, alright? Give me a break._

_Rewind — let’s start from the beginning._

_I’m not a hero._

_I had told them that at the start, with trembling lips and wide, broken eyes full of tears, that I could not_ ever _be the hero they needed. I had been lamenting about that in poetry for what felt like half my life before that — for what really and truly HAD been half my life before that — there was no way I could flip on a dime now. I’m terrible at making split-second_ anythings.

 _And now,_ now _it haunts me, this half present guilt for arriving in the middle of something that never should’ve involved me in the first place. That should’ve never existed in the first place._

Part of them knows that it was meant to go like this, but the other part of them, the accountable, guilty, unable-to-stop-taking-everything-personally part, feels that they should’ve been able to change it.

She did not come to this world brave. She always braced herself for impact with the things she feared and did them with a brave face for the world around her and those she cared about, but that does not mean she was brave. She feared many things. Hell, they had a doctor that listed one of their issues as _‘anxiety state’._

She had to _become_ brave. She’d shaped herself from roughly cut shrapnel, dragged herself out of it, bled on the rusted edges and turned herself into a weapon worthy of the title Herald; of the task to save them all.

They hug their cloak more tightly around their shoulders as the moons rise over Tevinter and the wind whistles softly. Liz remembers when she first arrived in Thedas and how startling it was to _know_ a place but not know a place. She knew startling details about the places, but nothing truly about the people. She remembered how scary Cassandra was, at first, and softens slightly, lifting her hand up to her collar before scowling, feeling the familiar semi-present grief rising in her chest, as it always does, when she thinks of any of her companions being apart from her side.

Of leaving them.

She stands, disappearing from the roof and reappearing at ground level, sneaking around the side to an entrance covered by crates and panels that are moved out of the way. _But she went to rebuild the Seeker’s,_ their ever-present thoughts remind them as they slam into the rotting wood door, always prone to getting stuck, grunting with the effort. With their left arm tucked against their body, they shut the door with their boot.

As they remove their cloak, they gently thumb the clasp that Cassandra had gifted them after the defeat of Corypheus — and as a goodbye gift.

Now, years later in Thedas, all of this seems so irrelevant, the petty details she barely remembers, much like her old life. But the origins of a person is important, or so Varric says. Once an aspiring historian, she would have agreed. But most of her aspirations had fallen away in favor of attending to the Inquisition’s needs to fix and fix and fix, giving from her own broken heart and pouring it into every cracked object and person she saw.

She remembers very vividly when Varric offered her an out and how she had adamantly refused, determined to do the right thing. Or rather, that she knew she could not.

What is she doing now, then? Is she doing the right thing now, running from them?

If she’s being honest, she’s been running from them since she got her memories back. Why would they ever truly want her? It’s fake. Not real, not real, not real—

Liz breathes rapidly, trembling as she crosses the room, trying not to trigger herself into a panic attack about reality and also because of her rejection sensitivity. She makes a fist and hits her thigh a few times, trying to clear the fuzz in her head. _They wouldn’t want her,_ she reminds the ache in her chest. _I don’t even want me. Is there a me?_

So they worked in silence. The harder the others tried, the further they retreated. They worked hard to inspire and manipulate change within the Chantry before helping her friend ascend to the throne, and the rest of their companions all went off in their own directions at their urging and encouragement, all of which felt like knives into their heart. Their heart still broke despite having no right to, despite the fact that they had been running from them emotionally for so long to avoid being rejected and was hurting themself further the longer they were stuck in Thedas.

And yes, they were avoiding the fact that they still referred to it as _being stuck in Thedas._ Even though… a small part of them know they're never getting home.

She sprawls out on her pallet in the corner that she had pulled out of the trash nearby, rough and uncomfortable— and a little smelly— and decides that they aren't going to think about the past anymore. She’s going to think about the future; like finding Solas—

Solas.

It still pulls her to a screeching halt when she tries to think about him and a way forward. She had thought she could convince him. She had hoped, had begged him...

But she couldn’t, he still fled with the pieces of the foci. And he still ran off to do... whatever Fen’Harel does, and she ran off after him with a note left for her advisors because if she tried to tell them she knew they wouldn’t let her go. But she couldn’t stay there, where she refused to let it become home, to fall into familiarity, to admit that in some ways she already had, she could not stay where she had already dug this grave; she might as well lie in it.

So she fled in the middle of the night, a flower pressed to the paper and held up into the wall of their chambers by an arrow with a piece of red cloth tied around it; a letter addressing their advisors and friends and wishing them well, and disappearing. They had learned much in their time here.

Her fist clenched involuntarily. Between her joint pain and the mark, her left hand is functionally useless some days now. She prefers not to think about what will happen when she returns for the Exalted Council. Or rather, what will happen to her, after…

She glances at the mark, infecting her more every day. Her hand is practically a flashlight most nights, lit up and pulsing a muted forest green.

With every encounter, she evades the Inquisition, her former friends — though they’re getting closer to capturing her successfully. The last time, she escaped Charter before Cullen could arrive in Starkhaven, where she’d run to on a lead about elven servants going missing from a certain Red Jenny. Before that, it was escaping Lace in the Dales before Leliana — before she was ordained as Divine Victoria — got there, which was arguably more worrying than Cullen, because it meant she was worried. Liz didn’t want them to be worried. She wanted them to go away.

(There was a small part of her that wished it was possible that she could just tiredly cry for hours with her head on Josephine’s shoulder until they dry out and she’s staring at the ceiling but not alone for once. She misses her friends. She misses her real friends, but at least she could have these ones. Her need for self-punishment outweighs her need for comfort. Who is she even punishing anymore? _Why is she hurting herself?_ )

It’s been a long time since both Starkhaven and the Dales. She’s gotten better at escaping them and leading high pursuit chases through multiple cities, though tedious. She would grin at them when she escaped, just feet away, before giving them a two finger salute and disappearing. She doesn’t have much energy left. Liz knows that, somewhere in her, and thinks they must know too.

That’s why she hasn’t seen or heard from them in so long — they’re waiting for her to exhaust herself so they can scoop her up like a cat. _That_ thought infuriates her sense of rebelliousness, but the other, bone chilling one stops her:

_What if they’ve really stopped looking?_

Realistically, she knows they haven’t. She’s the _Herald._ They’re going to look. And still, that thought was enough to make her clutch the doll that she took with her closer to her chest, a dull ache residing where her heartbeat should be. She doesn’t truly want them to catch her, but neither does she want them to not care about her. She wished they would leave her alone so she didn’t have to care about consequences for once, to just make a decision and not always hurt every party involved.

Liz grasps her necklace desperately. She’s just so tired, and her battle fatigue is getting worse. She’s in Tevinter right now, following a lead that a Jenny gave her. Thank the Gods for small miracles.

They had briefly wondered if knowing earlier that all of the people they had come to rely on would separate and leave would change how heartbroken they were over it. So they took off after Solas and haven't looked back, and they don't care if the others are looking for them. (Except, their ever present sense of both guilt and elation at being _looked for_ , sought after, war against each other.)

At least, that’s what they tell themself. They are constantly reminded of how the green virus on their hand, aching, always aching, started all of these problems for her. They spent so many years suicidal only to risk death by their own hand.

 _The Fates have a way of working indeed,_ they thought miserably, staring up at the rotting ceiling.

Working with Leliana taught her to sleep lightly, always. Fear grips her. Much like when she felt the terror of sleep paralysis when her ever creaking, ever shifting house so many years ago used to scare her, she feels that same cold fear now. This is not sleep paralysis, not the same as how she can see spirits roll by her eyelids sometimes. This is a presence.

She stiffens and slowly tries to peak over her blanket, surveying for movement. Her hand creeps toward the closest knife.

Suddenly two darkly clothed figures move towards the pallet. Her hand wraps around the handle of her closest knife and slashes blindly in the dark, the glow of a lightning rune illuminating the dark room with a sizzling sharp hiss. She doesn’t want to hurt, she just wants to get away.

She doesn’t see Inquisition heraldry, but then again, they wouldn’t want to be spotted if they were in the area. They’re wearing all black clothing, nearly unnoticeable, and no visible weapons.

The woman dodges as the man closes in and again Liz attacks, only to be evaded. One of them kicks her to the ground and slams their foot into her side and she hisses, considers setting the rotted house on fire but knowing the state she’s in, she would just die too. Her luck has never been too great. Or it’s been bloody wonderful all things considered, depending on who you ask.

“Oh, kickin’ a gal while she’s down? Leliana’s patience has run thin, then—“

The snark earns her a sharp, blooming pain in the back of her head, reminding her of a pistol-whip. Her mind is hazy but she realizes eventually that she’s being carried off somewhere roughly. Her side was kicked to shit and she’s tired and nauseous. The entire trip to wherever they’re going she fumes internally.

When she’s slung down into a chair and the bag wrestled off of her head, she takes in her surroundings. Underground, definitely. She snorts at the mysterious person in front of her, having been far too used to the kidnapped situation she’s found herself in.

“I already told you,” they spit, seething with hurt and anger that coiled inside them like a viper, “I am going ahead alone. I don’t need to be kept here until— oh.”

It wasn’t the Inquisition that greeted them. It isn’t Charter or Lace or any of the usual expected agents of Leliana’s. None of these shadowed people wear Inquisition heraldry. Entirely unidentifiable and suddenly the annoyance they felt melted into real, actual, inside-gripping fear.

“We are not interested in returning you to the Inquisition, at the present moment,” their captor replies neutrally, their hands placed on the table neatly.

They squint. Very few people could track them down and kidnap her, let alone want to at this point. None would sit her down to talk. They want her alive.

“Let me guess,” they rasp, hoarse from travel and lack of food and water for however many hours it took. “You’re those ‘people across the sea’?”

The mysterious figure in the dark across from her doesn’t give anything away, but they almost seem impressed. Internally she scoffs; she isn't smart, it's just the only other option, unless they were an entirely different unknown. “Clever.”

“Why am I even here? I should be searching for..."

“Solas, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause. The person across from her, and every person in the room, seems expectant, somehow, in the same way that Varric used to search her with, looking for what wasn’t being said, except this time it’s for something entirely different. Someone entirely different.

“You want information on Fen’Harel?”

Two of the members share a look, and then a nod. “We want to know how he operates, where he is, how everything happened. And we wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth, per say—“

The other person, still shadowed, nods affirmatively. “The whole story, from the beginning.”

“You couldn’t have just knocked?” Liz asks incredulously. Her eyes drop with tiredness and she yawns. “I’m too damn old for this and also too damn young to feel too damn old. And what about the Inquisitor?"

“We couldn't... ah, reach the Inquisitor, as it stands. Our... apologies, Liz. You do prefer that instead of Herald, yes?”

Liz shrugs, leaning back easily. “Nothing I haven’t been through. But you should know I don’t make deals without a price.”

“Name it.”

“If I tell you the whole story, the entire thing from start to finish, you will agree to cease your business in Thedas and reveal yourselves to the Inquisition.”

They look hesitant and Liz shrugs, nonchalant, inspecting their nails with exaggerated disgust for their ungainly state.

“Or I could bite my tongue off and you’ll never hear me speak again,” she smiles, but there’s no warmth behind it.

“I don’t think you get to make the terms here—“

“You get one chance,” she snaps, pulling their hands apart and pointing in his face sharply. The bonds fall apart to reveal that their hands are unbound, though they make no move to leave, and they settle back into their chair, settling their temper into cooled magma underneath a mask of nonchalance. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know who I am?”

Her captors don’t make any hasty decisions, watching her for any sudden moves. One of them places a hand on their weapon, being tugged back by their shoulder by a shorter… colleague, she supposes. She watches back from her peripheral.

“I was taught how to escape my bonds if I were ever captured,” she explains and then shrugs again, getting comfortable in her seat and pulling one leg underneath her. She resigned to telling the story until Leliana found them, which could be days or even weeks depending on how close she was on her trail previously, but quite frankly she was too tired to do anything else. “And please, no titles. You all — and Thedas, know me as Liz, yes?”

She waits for a nod. “I have not heard my given name said in over two years,” she half smiles wanly, wavering a bit. “I came to Thedas suddenly, very suddenly. I am like you, men from across the sea: I am not from here.”

It’s deathly quiet as that settles around them all. Individual breaths can be heard around the room, suspense thick and heavy, shadows shrouding them as the grief that has set inside her begins to fog the room.

“I did not come here with slightly pointed ears. I was… am, human. Let me explain.”

* * *

**[The Conclave, in the Fade, 9:42, A Brief Recollection, as described to Liz]**

_It is suffocating in here,_ humid yet no heat, cold and yet there’s no temperature. It clings to her, like snakes around her pulse points and airways. The other party groggily waking up in the Fade groans in pain and confusion, just barely catching the attention of a conversation — if you could call it that — between a scared, crying woman and a calmly speaking entity clothed in red — with horns? — and a white entity speaking urgently.

“You will be known as Mythalen… oh, quiet, it’s a symbolic name, you can keep your own” one of them, she thinks the horned one is saying calmly, but firmly.

The crying young woman in front of the horned-woman waves a hand limply at the Chantry guard rapidly gaining consciousness, face blank and eyes red. Hiccuping sobs still made her chest rise, despite her best efforts.

“She’ll be fine,” the woman with dragon horns assures, bringing the young woman's attention back to her. Her eyes are still confused and brimming with tears, a hand on one of her ears, rubbing the just barely pointed tip. “You are marked for great things — and now, not just by the wolf. This path will not be an easy one. You can do this; I am afraid you have no choice, and for now I have helped you as much as I can. Now, go with haste, and start your journey.”

The woman disappeared as if she hadn’t been there and the young woman — really just a young girl, Myra realizes — stands there, dazed. As Myra woke, she realized this person was dressed in the strangest attire she’d ever seen. A coat with an advanced mechanism to hold it closed in the front, severely damaged, and under that a second coat of a material she’s seen little of. Her pants seem to be the same material as the second coat, she has strange black leather boots, and on her back is… a pink… leather bag? All of it is textured strangely. She’s never seen anyone with clothes like those.

Suddenly she becomes aware very quickly that they are not in a safe space to be daydreaming or dozing off, and that the urgency is in fact, warranted. Despite the bruising she knows she has, she grimaces and forces herself up, nervously eyeing the green thing glowing on the young woman’s hand. She hears skittering far away and a shiver crawls up her spine. They need to go, now.

“Listen, we need to get out of here, it looks like the exit is that way. I’m Myra. Come on,” she urges, holding a hand out for the girl to take.

The young woman, _maybe_ Mythalen, _who knows what the fuck I just heard_ , turns to her and warily eyes her, but some sort of familiarity makes her turn her head, like she can’t quite place it either. But she places her hand in Myra’s as she turns her head back and realizes she has no choice, and together they begin to run.

A bright, white light urges them forward, trying to hold off the worst of it. Something trips them and Liz shrieks, does not think, simply acts, and suddenly what tripped them was on fire, but so was she. She threw off her jacket without thinking and struggled to keep up with Myra now, who suddenly swept her up and kept running towards the swirling exit.

They fell out of the portal together, Liz in Myra’s arms, the flaming jacket falling out onto the snow behind them, and a white outline ensuring it closed. Liz and passed out as soon as Myra’s knees hit the snow, but the warrior weakly called out for help, retaining consciousness long enough to hear muffled shouts and fast footsteps, and then nothing else.

* * *

**[Present Day Thedas, 9:43 Dragon]**

“So Mythal gave you that name when you came here?” The person across from her sounds dubious, and Liz shrugs, spreading her hands in front of her.

“Believe me or don’t, that is what happened. Regaining those memories was a shock. Liz became my name as when I fell out of that Rift, it was all I remembered. Yet, later, I was reminded of an old debt I had to pay for my… arguably ‘safe’ travel into this world.”

They don’t seem to know what to say to that. Liz almost smiles. They don’t understand how much power they’re giving her; how saying ‘too much’ can be her upper hand. For now, she schools her face carefully.

“I see.”

Liz doesn’t look up and she changes the subject. “As I said, I came to Thedas suddenly, without any knowledge of my previous life. Are you paying attention? It all started in a prison, to my knowledge...”

* * *

**[Where Shit Went Wrong, Haven, 9:42 Dragon]**

At first, she had barely noticed the numbness in her limbs or even the cold dampness of the cell, so used to waking up in pain she was (and cold, considering she lived in Mother Nature’s wheel of fortune and her heating was liable to be shut off if her parents couldn’t pay it). Blearily, she blinked the sleep out of her eyes. Her mouth was drier than a desert, she’d have to get some water when she got up.

Her eyes snapped open fully when she heard the clinking of metal and dripping water, taking a few moments to register that she’s kneeling on the ground and bound in a dark — _oh my Gods it’s dark, I hate the dark_ — cell, surrounded by... _are those guards? In armor?_ Her brain catches up with the rest of her with the speed of a freight train, and all previous thoughts of anything vanished.

She breathes deeply and _tries_ for evenly, but it’s beginning to get uneven because she’s so confused, her memories are scattered, everything hurts and it’s cold and she doesn’t know what’s going on—

Next to her, someone groans, gaining consciousness gradually, and she is instantly alert, eyeing them warily, but she remembers this person slowly. _She carried me out of that… thing. Place? Both? Ugh, my head… and my body… You know, she looks a lot like..._

The woman groans again, blinking her eyes open finally. “You’re still here, thank the Maker,” she breathes, making Liz wrinkle her nose. _No Maker’s for her, thank you._ “Do you know where we are? What’s going on?”

Their eyes fill with tears, completely overstimulated and overwhelmed, and they bite their lip, shaking her head. They realize after several moments it is, in fact, one of the Inquisitor’s they designed.

Myra softens, turning to reassurance now, even with her hands bound, and tries to shift, making the soldiers in the room bristle. “It’s alright, it’s going to be fine.”

Liz tries to believe the other woman, but slightly rethinks that when the door slammed open to reveal a head of black hair, a braid across the top and amber eyes — she’s always had a weakness for beautiful women, but her fear response is so high that it takes priority, and cowers at the powerful entrance.

 _Maybe this is a dream,_ her rational mind half-heartedly tries to suggest, clinging onto scraps and remnants of things they don't remember, making pain spike in their head. Her shoulders slack a bit regardless. _If it’s a dream—_

The immediate gust of cold wind hurts her skin and wakes her up and her throat closes, dry as anything. _Not a dream, then._

 _Why can I see?_ She blinks, realizing she doesn’t have contacts in — _they would be burning by now_ — or her glasses on, and she can see fine. No blurriness. 

Her eyes are so focused on the imposing stature of the first familiar woman who enters that she almost misses the other one, but she’s on high alert as a soft feminine face comes into view, covered by a cowl and wearing gloves that are familiar to her. 

All of the stimuli attacking her senses make her breathe heavily, heart pacing faster and faster. _Stop, stop, stop. Too much, too much._

And then, “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now. The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you two.”

It’s rich and deep and if she wasn’t tied up, she’d find it rather attractive, she knows, but at the moment finds herself scared. _For the love of all the gods above and below, do not tell me that’s..._

She tries to speak, but her mouth won’t cooperate with her, and this only prompts a scared noise to escape her, still confused and hazy from her odd awakening.

Finally she manages a, “w-what? I-I d-d-don’t know, I—”

But Myra's voice, strong in it's hesitance, breaks through their stuttering. “Cassandra?” her voice is tinged with familiar pain and confusion. “What… what do you mean? What happened to the Conclave? Where is my brother?”

The woman growls, and repeats her accusation harshly to Liz and ignores Myra, the red-headed woman coming back into view again. The cold is starting to settle in now that she’s fully conscious.

“I-I don’t—I don’t know w-what y-you’re talking about, I d-don’t remember anything!” she insisted fearfully, looking to Myra for help and seeking a familiar face. Or as familiar she can get.

Her confused look must set the woman off, because she grabs her wrist and shoves it into her face.

It flops limply in front of her and she’s not ashamed to admit she makes several jokes in her head about what it reminds her of briefly.

Call her childish, but even in a dream — which her hope of this being is dwindling by the second — someone needs a way to cope with things. _Humor, am I right?_ It’s just how her family dealt with things. Laugh it off so it doesn’t hurt so much later.

“Explain _this.”_

The young woman looks down at their crackling, fizzling hand. It feels achingly real and amps their anxiety up to about twenty over the anxiety speed limit.

She narrows her eyes at her hand as if it could answer for her, the pain in her hand like a firebrand.

Her answers must be puzzling to the Spymaster circling her, and only add to the anger of the heavily armored woman in front of her. She wishes she knew where she was.

Her brow furrows as she genuinely tries to remember what happened. She thinks that she should know what is going on, but the memories that should be there...

“I d-don’t know what’s going on, h-honestly—“

“You’re lying!” The armored woman gets into her personal space, dragging her up by the shirt collar, and she whimpers a little bit. Definitely in fear. And not because she found it hot.

_Definitely._

(She’s acutely aware that her idle attraction to this woman is just a survival reaction, and that arousal and fear are too similar — especially when you’ve got issues with this type of stuff and hormones are all weird because you haven’t even gotten to college— _Wait. Stop psychoanalyzing yourself! There’s more important things going on!)_

“I’m not!” She finds herself insisting, whimpering even, her eyes blurring with tears of fear now, “I—I’m not even supposed to be here!”

“Cassandra, that is enough!” Myra yells hoarsely from her place next to Liz, straining against her bonds. “What happened to the damn Conclave?”

“We need her, Cassandra,” Leliana reminds her counterpart, and Liz has to shake her head. She can’t believe this is happening.

“Do you remember what happened?” 

She only stares slightly before shaking her head. 

“Running,” she whispers. Leliana nods encouragingly. “creatures, a woman...”

As she spoke, the memories, though fuzzy, genuinely returned to her. _Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, oh f—_

“A woman?” Leliana kneels before the bound girl, brushing a piece of errant, greasy hair out of her eyes.

 _Oh, how long has it been since she showered?_ She leans into the brief touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

_Dammit, being touch starved! Not now!_

It’s a grounding force, _touch,_ in the whirlwind of stimuli and she's oddly grateful for the Spymaster seeming to know that she needed it, even if she’s using it to get what information she thinks she has on the Conclave. Which, she does have — she’s iffy on that still, but if they think she’s useful they won’t get rid of her — but not in the way she suspects.

Myra looks something akin to a bear who’s cub is being toyed with, a vein in her neck just slightly bulging and her eyes sharply on Leliana, not trusting her to not use the young woman’s clear vulnerability against her, slowly relaxing as she realized the woman was simply investigating.

The Spymaster seemed to realize that one way or another, Liz relished in the warmth provided from the touch and she kept her hand there, gently thumbing through the dirt and grime that had accumulated and watching their suspect soften under it, ignoring the other prisoner’s angry glare. 

Leliana watched as, and filed it for later inspection the young woman's eyes filled with tears again. “What else? Do you remember anything—”

“The woman...” she shuts her eyes, a wave of nausea and vertigo washing over her and struggling to stay sitting up, “... saved me, I think... she reached for me?”

Leliana nods, seeming disappointed. When she goes to stand, the young woman frantically tries to get her attention, struggling to find the words, “her... voice... was kind...”

The woman turns to the chantry guard sitting next to Liz, and Myra nods. “That fits with what I remember as well. There was…

“... a lot of nothing, for a while,” she finally decides on. “And then I was running, and then I was carrying that one,” she nods to the other prisoner, “and there were… _Things_ chasing us.”

Liz grits her teeth and stares steadfastly at the floor, suddenly full of conviction. “L-listen... I don’t know how I got here, or what has h-h-happened,” she tries, her breaths wheezing, “but I d-did not do anything wrong. I don’t know about her,” she tries to crack a joke, but it falls flat as her face contorted in pain again.

She tears her eyes from the stone and forces as much eye contact as she can muster, staring up at them earnestly and trying to convey her _pain-helplessness-sincerity_ and opens her mouth to try and make her case again, when _it_ rips through her left side, feeling like a firebrand from the inside out, or hot needles, absolutely shattering her conscious thought.

A horribly mangled whine makes its way out of Liz’s mouth when she clenches her teeth to prevent from screaming, her eyes closing of their own accord. Briefly, in a period of time that could’ve been seconds or minutes, she feels hands on her shoulders and cheeks, and when she finally has the strength to open her eyes again she peers up at the strangers in a daze, tears prying themselves out of her eyes.

“ _Mom_?” She slurs, eyesight blurry and everything inside feeling decidedly hot, like she was an internal stew. “Damn, I told you not to bring that cup near the horse again. Jellybean... doesn’t like ‘em...”

Myra, her face concerned, quietly peers down at her, carding soothing hands through her hair — as best as she can with her hands in manacles — as she recovers. Cassandra impatiently stands by, her stance only slightly softened by the young woman’s genuine pain. When she can finally stand, Leliana helps her up onto her unsteady legs, followed by helping Myra up, who goes to steady her.

Cassandra makes ‘ _the noise._ ’ and she's only slightly too distracted to pay more attention to it. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will show the prisoners the Breach.”

Leliana goes to leave with a nod to her counterpart, only lingering for the tiniest of seconds and betraying her worry that the tall warrior might snap and kill the prisoners. _Great_ , she swallows nervously, only comforted that Myra was the type of person to probably attempt to keep them alive, and she only knew that because she wrote the damn woman.

Slightly perturbed by the younger of the women’s both nervous and placating demeanor, Cassandra unchains her and Myra and pulls them forward to lead her through the cells, periodically looking at her, as though she expects her to spontaneously grow a second head.

 _Though, given... this,_ she thinks with resentment for the green thing on her hand, which aches with sympathy — _or out of spite_ — the Seeker has a right to look at her oddly.

Now they have time to think, left with their best companion for the time being — silence — where they can gather their thoughts.

When the silence becomes too much and it feels like it’s suffocating her, much like the cold, she states more than asks, “... there’s more, right?”

She’s considerably shorter than Cassandra, she notices. Far shorter than she thought in the dimness of that dank cell, in all honesty, and the difference between her and the older woman causes her to blink a bit nervously. How many other things put her at an advantage?

At least Myra is about Cassandra's height, and Myra is nice. Makes things a little even.

“It will be easier to show you,” Cassandra says, shortly, glancing at Myra for what feels like the thousandth time and her face falling into stern lines again, her mouth setting angrily.

“Cassandra,” Myra tries for like the fourth time on their way out, and then when they lay eyes on the Breach for the first time, both of them fall silent, the Seeker watching their horrified reactions to the scar in the sky, constantly expanding.

“I… What the fuck is that, Cassandra?” Myra murmurs, in awe of such a destructive force.

“We still do not know,” the woman replies, watching Myra take in the Breach, realizing in fascination and a bit of worry that Myranna's eyes, usually a warm hazel, reflect the color of the Breach, and a small spark of jade dances through them.

The one bearing the mark has it even worse, what were clearly dark brown eyes swirled and mixed with bright green, alight with a soft glow when the Breach acts up.

The youngest of them was panicking. The Breach… it was like nothing she had ever seen, literally. And even though she was bracing herself for the pain in her hand, it still brought her to her knees, gasping in agony and begging in her head for any of the Gods to grant her respite. 

Myra kneels by her side, murmuring as many comforting words as she can think of that aren't false promises, helping her through the pain.

Cassandra joins her on her other side slowly, a regretful tone to her voice and her eyes set low. “Every time the Breach spreads, so does your mark. And it is killing you.”

Liz nods, certain that if she were ever to be a character in a book, this would absolutely be her luck. Not because she feels important, but because her luck has a track record of being terrible. “You won’t have to force my cooperation, ...?”

Cassandra seems a bit taken aback by her lack of reaction at being told of her imminent death, but tells her, “You may call me Seeker or Seeker Pentaghast if you must.”

With a fierce determination in her eyes and tears forcefully falling down her cheeks, she sniffles and nods. “Right. Seeker Pentaghast... I....” They stare up at the green vortex in the sky that screams at them, _your shit survival instincts are going to be your undoing, and your inability to not help people is going to kill you_. “... I’m going to make this right.”

“We shall see. Come.”

“I’m Myra,” the Ostwick noble says to the woman bearing the mark, who nods but does not reply, huddling close to Myra’s side as they begin their trek, away from the angry stares. Myra turns to Cassandra then, “How do you know so much about her mark?”

It’s clear the Seeker ponders answering the question at all for several minutes, and when Myra opens her mouth to ask again, the Seeker replies, “there is a mage who specializes in the magic of the Fade who has been studying the mark as you and the other prisoner have slept.”

Myra nods, noticing how the girl huddles close to her and how many of the people in the small town glare or outright spit at them, and she looks to Cassandra in mild shock, using her own stern face and harsh glare to deflect the worst of them as she attempts to shield the youngest of the three from the scrutiny.

Cassandra sighs and turns to them, voice low. “They lash out, like the sky. This was Most Holy’s Conclave, a chance for peace.”

The young woman next to her shrugged as best as she can with bound hands, even though their stares make her internal voice feel validated, somewhere in the far back of her mind, for all of the years she’s spent disliking herself.

They shake their head and breathe, “I understand.”

This earns her a side glance, but they don’t stop moving. “Most in your position would not share that sentiment.”

They do not look Cassandra in the eyes when they reply, “most are not me, Seeker.”

When they get to the gate and Cassandra pulls out her knife she startles immediately, eyes as wide as a deer in headlights. _A lot scarier when it’s being pulled on you._

Liz winces away from the Seeker when she comes closer, but the older woman is heedless of her fear, destroying the rope with a flick of her dagger. She relaxes when her hands are freed, looking up at the Seeker in relief.

“You didn’t kill me,” Liz whispers, laughing a little bit in hysteric relief, rubbing their wrists. “thank you.”

“Of course she didn’t, I wouldn’t let that happen,” the other warrior with them says, holding her hands out to also be released with a glare.

With a noise of displeasure for her circumstances, the Seeker grabs her by the forearm, making serious eye contact. “Do not make me regret this, Myranna,” she warns.

Though Myra’s jaw tightens briefly, she scoffs and turns to look into Cassandra’s eyes with a mock-pout, “Would I ever?”

Cassandra does not reply, sliding her knife through her binds and releasing her wrist with a huff. Myra, once the warrior turned around, rubs the offended arm for several minutes in almost reverence. Internally, Liz finds herself fangirling at getting to see her favorite ship… _do the thing!_ In front of her! The reality of the situation settles back in and takes away from the excitement of it, but she had the moment to enjoy it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Conclave is a ruin. Who else to be their Savior, indeed. And who better than a Champion to guide them to the light safely?

The feeling is slow to come back to Liz’s fingers, her extremities barely responding. Which is what she expected, but they still hurt a lot. Her shoes are thankfully her combat boots and she’s wearing her pressure socks, but they’re soaked, and not in any rush to dry. 

They don’t talk while they rush on the path. She keeps her eyes on the sky, waiting for explosions of green and demons and pain. The sound that escapes her — a pained cry, heard only if you were close enough — is tucked into her chest, attempting to muffle it as much as possible for the sake of those she is with. Cassandra and Myra both kneel and help her up, the marked hand still spasming and her body shaking long after the episode has passed.

Overwhelmed and startled by the new things about her surroundings, she doesn’t recognize where they are until she suddenly does, and then her body is _screaming_ danger. Her feet slow their pace, about to call out to the warriors ahead of her, but she doesn’t have the time. Instead, as Cassandra turns to ask why she has stopped, she musters her courage and grabs her by the shoulder, trying with her eyes to encourage Myra to do the same as herself.

She uses as much force as she can to pull them backwards when the bridge explodes, allowing her to roll them out of the way, something Cassandra didn’t fight. Myra got the idea and instinct did the rest.

Out of the ground, green and grey and the smell of something sulfuric wafts upward. Something begins to take shape as the Seeker regains her bearings.

“Stay behind me!”

Watching Cassandra charge into a fight was easily the most swoon-worthy thing they had ever seen. _Gay thoughts later, common sense ones now!_

Their brain sasses back: _I'm too gay and pretty for common sense._

Shaking her head, she frantically looks around for a weapon, realizing they’re in danger, before settling on a discarded bow and quiver with an uneasy _it's better than nothing_ feeling _._

Something bubbles up from the ground, hissing and snarling and she yelps, stumbling back. Cassandra turns her head briefly, swearing something that the young woman can not understand over the sounds of fighting. Myra gets up, holding her side, and quickly finds a two-handed claymore to stand back to back with the other warrior.

_Shit. Shit. Shit, okay. Take the shot. You’re going to die if you don’t take the shot._

The arrow remains knocked and loaded, staring down the approaching thing as it lumbers closer, the foam in it's mouth growing thicker.

_One, two—_

The strangely shaped malignant spirit is almost upon her now and a louder noise of fear escapes her.

She closes her eyes and counts to three, willing herself to relax before she draws the arrow and back lets it loose. It flies into the shoulder of the scary thing — _demon_ , her brain says, and it stumbles back and roars angrily. Not bad, but definitely room for improvement. 

“Seeker, Myra, watch out!” She fires another arrow into a shade that’s sneaking up behind the women, causing it to shriek in pain and she winces, the noise hurting her already sensitive, damaged ears. 

_Ear infections are going to suck ass here,_ she thinks. Firing arrows gets easier after the first, though.

It gives Cassandra enough time to whirl around and slam her sword through its stomach, causing it to dissipate and bubble into nothing.

Myra pants, holding the sword defensively, before lowering it with a deep exhale and reaching to hold her side.

Seeker Cassandra turns on them both now, eyeing them warily, sword pointed towards their chests. “Drop your weapons.”

Cassandra blinks at the bow now on the ground. Their hands are pulled into their chest, eyes wide and looking between the bow and the warrior in fear. Myra only raised her sword higher, an eyebrow raised, moving in front of the young woman defensively.

“Wait,” the Seeker says before they can move on. “I cannot protect you both on my own,” she sighs, defeated; like a woman who has had a rough couple of days. “And I should remember you both came willingly. My apologies.” She sheaths her sword and begins walking.

Liz stared after the Seeker, trotted forward, and then looked back at Myra. They shared a look, she shrugged, and threw the quiver over her head, then slung the bow over, too. Shaking her head, they start after Cassandra at a fast pace, only slowing when they reach her and the younger of them huffs slightly. 

The woman looks over at her, taking note of her very strange, small yet pointed ears, barely noticeable. “You are elf-blooded, correct?”

Liz stumbles, throwing their arms out to steady themself, trying to think of a short answer before deciding, “I don’t know.”

Cassandra’s eyes strayed to look at the short, nervous young woman next to her. “You don’t know?”

“I mean, I have—“ she reaches a hand up to rub her ear. “But I kind of don’t know…”

She trails off and doesn’t find a way to articulate the rest of it.

“How old are you?” Cassandra asks next.

“Eig-Twenty,” she replies nervously, her needless habit for lying when stressed showing through.

Myra whistles through her teeth at her answer, looking up at the sky.

“You’re quite young to be traveling alone, are you not?” Cassandra is still looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

This question she opts not to answer, looking steadfastly ahead.

“Avoiding my question will not go unnoticed.”

“Maybe I’m trying to be noticeable,” she answers teasingly from under her eyelashes at the older woman, causing a warm blush to dust bronze cheeks and she shakes her head, walking faster.

Myra shakes her head. _Nice one,_ she thinks. 

A giggle-like laugh erupts from Liz, and then they’re both walking faster to catch up.

Liz watched the way their breath condensed and floated away on the wind for a moment before shaking their head and squaring their shoulders. Myra, now side by side with Cassandra, listened carefully for the sounds on the wind. The wind carries the sound of fighting from ahead to them, and she feels her ear twitch lightly at it.

_My ear—what?_

“Seeker?”

The Seeker tilts her head before sharing a nod with Myra, drawing her sword and speeding up her pace, gesturing for the other warrior to do the same.

Liz shouts, “Who is fighting?” 

She doesn’t get a chance to hear the answer as something hot, sizzling and far too big for her liking whizzes past her ear and she hisses at the burning sensation. Cassandra turns, shield drawn and commands Liz to stay back.

Liz, stuck between wanting to be defiant and knowing just how dire the circumstances are, creeps around the edge of the field, crawling up and over a ridge while the mark sparks and burns in her hand. She watches, nerves fraying around the edges, while the others do the work. Her hand is clenched around the bow tightly, wood creaking under the pressure. 

Something briefly catches their eye and they swear. One shade crept up too close to Cassandra and Myra was across the field giving-- _oh, ew,_ Solas, back up, and Liz couldn’t take the shot without possibly hitting her.

With a shout of frustration and her impulsive mind made up, they threw the bow around their back and picked up the first discarded dagger they spotted — rusted and covered in spots of black ichor and flecks of rust, _but, it’ll do_ — and leapt over the crest, taking a running start at the shade and shouldering into it, dragging the dagger across its back and then rolled onto their other shoulder into a crouch.

The distraction gave the warrior enough time to turn around and dispel the creature once and for all. Cassandra appears thoroughly confused, and the mysterious woman met her stare with heavy breaths, unconcerned.

This small pause made her forget what came next. “Quickly, before more come through!”

He grabs her hand with an iron grip and hands as cold as ice and shoves it into the rift. Being remarkably short, this pulls her on to her tip toes and stretches her muscles uncomfortably until she grimaces. The mark _pulls_ and _pulls_ and _pulls—_

_Pop!_

The rift disappears and she staggers, barely managing to catch herself. The Seeker reaches to steady her, and all she sees are hands coming toward her and--

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, slapping the hands away almost instinctively. Her face softens and she looks away, ashamed at her stupid reaction.

Varric clears his throat and returns his crossbow to his back, fixing a pleasant, but tired, smile onto his face.

“And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever. Varric Tethras; rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwanted tag a long.”

She chuckled lowly, crossing her arms. His chest hair was on display proudly and his stance was easy going, but she knew it was a front for a deeply guarded man. She shuddered. _Oh, that's kind of weird. The knowing them, now that they're... real._

They hold out their hand with a small, unsure smile. “Part-time prisoner, aspiring historian, and unwanted acquaintance to suspicious Seekers.”

Myra joins them, hoisting her acquired two-handed claymore into the harness on her back. “I’m Myra, I’d say I’m about the same as her. Except, I'm just a chantry guard."

Cassandra scowls at them both fiercely, but Liz merely sends her a blinding smile. Varric grins and immediately takes to the young woman. He shakes her offered hand, noting the grimace as he does but before he can speak, the last person in the vicinity speaks up.

“I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you both live.” Solas comments idly, his nonchalance a front for his interest. It makes her uncomfortable.

“What he means to say is that he kept that mark from killing you while you slept. And he treated you,” he nods to Myra, “since you fell out of the rift,” Varric cuts in when Liz doesn’t reply. 

“My thanks,” she says quietly, her eyes on the ground.

Solas merely nods, still eyeing her curiously, but he seems to respect her just a tiny bit for at least acknowledging his part in keeping her alive.

Myra clears her throat, hands behind her back. “Yes, Ser Solas. Thank you very much.”

“May we go now?” Cassandra seems impatient, like a woman with hot coals under her feet — though she can’t blame her in this situation. “I must get her to the temple.”

“Well,” Varric starts with a shit-eating grin and _oh,_ she knows she likes him already, “ready to go, Chuckles?”

The Seeker cuts through the air with her hands, as if to physically ward him off. “Your help was appreciated, Varric, but—“

“Have you seen the valley lately, Seeker?” He asks her with that _I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong-tone. “_ You need me.”

The two stare each other down, neither willing to back off.

The girl shrugs and turns to the Seeker quietly, “Seeker, can’t he just come? More hands mean less work. Plus, he’s kinda killin’ it.”

Varric laughs. “‘Killin’ it’?”

They purses their lips, trying to figure out how to explain. “Your outfit and general demeanor are exceptionally nice.”

Now he laughs and laughs. “How can you say no now? My general demeanor is exceptionally nice, Seeker.”

Solas eyes the dwarf with a slightly exaggerated disdain despite their circumstances, and sighs, digging the tip of his staff into the snow slightly. “Well, I suppose the valley awaits, then, Seeker?”

Cassandra scoffs. “You cannot possibly believe—“

“Being able to monitor the mark does have benefits,” he replies quietly, looking at the young woman holding it.

Cassandra opens her mouth to reply, and then closes it, rubbing her face for several moments before sighing.

The ice is broken. Cassandra caves and allows Varric — and, by proxy, Solas — to come along, which they do end up needing the extra support.

In no time they’re on their way and the two rogues, with Myra chiming in, have a banter going on, to both Solas and Cassandra’s chagrin, though the latter much more than the former. The Seeker looks like she’d prefer the grinding of bones next to her ears than listen to their chattering.

“So, you got a name, then?”

The strangely outfitted prisoner hums. “Yes.”

Varric and Solas — and Cassandra, though she would not admit it — look at her expectantly.

“Let’s make it a bet of sorts, with my name as the bet,” they reply, a smirk tipping their lips up, though there’s something so desperate about it, wavering around the edges. “If I survive trying to close that,” she points at the Breach, “then I will tell you my name. If I do not, then it does not matter who I am in the end, yes? I simply died a lost young woman, far from home.”

Varric blinks and rubs the back of his head. Solas seems perplexed by this logic, eyeing the young woman oddly, and even Cassandra snorted from her place ahead.

“You’ve got a weird sort of luck to survive something like that once, I’m counting on you getting through it twice,” he replies jokingly, but it falls a bit flat.

“Hope I am the right set of ponies, then.”

“You have a strange idea of humor,” Cassandra comments, but the girl shrugs it off.

They wrinkle their nose. “Is it? To my knowledge, my humor is commonplace. Perhaps _you_ are the strange one.”

“Out of all of us, short stuff, I’m pretty sure you’re the strangest,” Varric replies, to which the young woman looks up to the sky and mutters something like _Gods, help me then,_ before continuing on the path.

“So, did you do it?”

She pauses, considers the question, and then shrugs to the twinkle in his eye. “Not even sure how I got here. Is what it is,” she waves a hand, nonchalant. “When you’re dealt a shitty hand might as well play it.”

That startled a laugh out of Varric and a small, rumbling chuckle from Myra — _that_ and the genuine, resigned nature of the statement. “Been dealt a few shitty hands?”

The young woman snorts. “Too fuckin’ many, my guy.”

Cassandra is appalled by the young prisoners' lack of inhibition and goes to say as much, but is interrupted.

Varric whistles low. “Damn,” he shakes his head. “That’ll get you every time. Should’ve—“

“Spun a story?”

“—Spun a story...”

He blinks at their almost-too-quick to be a comfortable reply, “Yeah... something like that.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, rolling her eyes and plowing right over the fact that the young woman herself had suggested it. “That’s what you would’ve done, Varric.”

“Damn straight, I would’ve,” Varric scoffed, waving his hand in a gesture that the young woman could tell would annoy the Seeker. “It tends to prevent premature execution.”

“Alas, I lack the balls to lie to someone with as many muscles as her,” she gestures to Cassandra with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, who she ignores when she sputters incoherently. “Also, though I thought I didn’t feel like being prematurely executed, I’m sort of reconsidering death as an option, so I’ll get back to you on that. We’ll see how it goes and how many of you want me dead by the end of this!”

It’s the most she’s spoken in one sentence and it takes almost all of her breath to do so, surprising the others with her.

Myra comments on that. “That’s the most you’ve talked since we woke up.”

The young woman only shrugs, and then almost falls over her own feet, woozy. "Does anyone have anything to eat on them?"

The only mage in their party finally speaks, his eyebrows furrowed at the young woman as she quietly bites into jerky that Cassandra hastily pushes toward her. “You have quite the fatalistic wit for someone so young.”

The young woman swallows after several moments of forceful, hard chewing, and then laughs in a way that isn’t quite humorous and isn’t quite defeated. She pats his arm in a way that someone who has a secret might do with an old friend.

“Gallows humor, my friend,” they inform him gleefully, walking confidently past him although their left knee clearly falters every few steps. “Trust me, if I’m alive for you to see more, this isn’t even the half of it!”

* * *

Her hand starts sparking and crackling moments before she can hear the rift. She clenches her jaw and a small strained noise escapes, but otherwise remains collected.

She stops point blank and Cassandra, following close behind, nearly walks straight into her which causes a noise of complaint, but the young woman tugs on her armor and points ahead.

“Rift.”

Varric slows as he reaches her side and furrows his brow in concern, his hand coming up to support her arm. “Hey, you alright?”

“I am - _fuck_!-“ The very hyperactive mark cracks again and sends a bolt of lightning through her already swollen fingers, the crack in the middle of her hand extending just a tiny bit. Her knees bend, but she catches herself and stumbles, breathing hard. “fine. We have stuff to do. Lets close this.”

She shoulders past them and her thoughts are scrambled as her shaking hands gather her bow and load an arrow. Cassandra seems the most collected out of the four, though her mouth is firm and set, her eyes betray a type of pity.

Varric, Solas and Myra share a wordless glance, but with a solemn shake of his head Solas indicates that there is nothing more he can do for the young woman. With that, they follow after her, all slightly troubled by what must be a heavy burden to carry divinity in her trembling palms, clenched so tightly around the rough wood of a deadman’s bow.

Approaching the rift, she sees blurry faces appear and discordant images with washed out audio playing like a broken record. They watch her waver between scowling fiercely at it, as if with just her rage she could make it dissipate, and crumpling with sadness from the melody none of them truly recognize.

Growling, they shake their head, as if to clear it of the images physically, and look down at their hands. They won’t be functional for much longer, they don’t know what they're going to do when they aren’t.

The battle begins and ends quite like they always do. Her brain kind of just... spaces out, disconnecting the way she would during stressful situations, like when her oldest brother started screaming and didn't stop, and when it’s over she’s already stumbling to where the rift is tugging her mercilessly, pulling the threads of the fade back together.

Inside the rift, laughter emerges. Tears fill her eyes and she grits her teeth as she forces the tear to close, sealing away the images of people she should know but barely remembers.

The resulting blast of energy pushes her backwards, but not off of her feet. Her breath is coming too quickly and she knows she’s really close to having a panic attack at this point and she’s really, really trying not to.

“You’re becoming quite proficient at this.” Solas remarks in the boring, dry tone he has, drawing her out of the memories she was dwelling on.

Grief is working it’s way around her heart, snaking into her chest between her lungs and planting roots so physically, so tangible it hurts to breathe. 

Whatever he sees in her face makes him turn from her and she snorts under her breath, already sick of him. 

No one stops her as she continues — stomps — on. Walking into the forward camp, she spots Leliana arguing with a blabbing Chancellor. Nodding in greeting, she pulls up short with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised at the table, Myra herself stopping slightly in front of her and defeating the purpose of her confident stance.

Leliana clears her throat. “Ah, here they are. Chancellor Roderick, this is—“

Predictably, Roderick wants her blood immediately. “I know who it is! What I’m wondering is why she’s not bound for Val Royeaux for execution!”

She throws a sorry smile back at Varric, completely ignoring the annoying man who continues to squawk. “What do I owe you for catching that one?”

“Maybe a drink?”

“If I’m alive...” they trail off, turning back to the Chancellor. Their face scrunches up like they ate something sour, which is a shame, because when done well they happen to think savory food is quite tasty — this man is just sour like an old grapefruit left in the sun. “I don’t wanna talk to you."

And she walks over to a barrel and promptly sits herself down on it, absentmindedly massaging their swollen fingers as she spaces out.

Over at the table, the arguing begins to get heated. Myra almost resorts to pacing, when Leliana says,

“You, what do you think?”

“Me?” Myra points to herself, looking back and forth. “Why — and pardon my Orlesian — the _fuck_ are you asking me?”

The woman doesn’t even bat an eye. “Consider it the desire for a fresh perspective. What do you think?”

Myra weighs the choices they’ve been arguing about for several minutes and sighs. “She should get a say, too,” she nods to the young woman almost asleep sitting up on the barrel, “if she’s going to… if we’re going to…” she clears her throat. “She deserves a say.”

“I think n—“

“That’s a fine idea,” Leliana interrupts the Chancellor, and they turn to the girl.

“Prisoner!” The Seeker calls over to her.

“Hm, I don’t quite like the ring of that one,” they reply dryly, eyes closed and nearly napping at this point.

Seeker Pentaghast rolls her eyes. “We can either charge or—“

“—Or take the mountain path?” She suggests, her eyes flicking open and focusing on the mountain, a deep tiredness seeming to have set in on her face while they argued with the Chancellor.

“...Yes.” The Seeker eyes her warily, though realizes she very well could’ve been paying attention the entire time and that they could’ve been talking loudly.

“The mountain path,” she answers, hopping off the barrel and shuddering as she gets a reminder in her limbs of just how cold it is. “The scouts are probably holed up somewhere awaiting a dashing rescue, and who am I to deny them it?”

“That’s what I thought,” Myra nods, pleased with the choice that she made.

Liz flashes her a brief attempt at a genuine smile before it falls flat, securing used and worn gloves over frozen, shaking fingers with some difficulty, and they can barely hear her muttering bitterly, “After all, someone deserves to see my... charming... looks before I’m either shipped off and hung — or killed by my hand. How fucking ironic, I spend however many years with ideation...”

As they walk by, the young woman acknowledges Leliana now. “Gather your remaining scouts, Sister,” there’s a far away look on her face indicating she’s already considering other things. “This will not be an easy fight. Fare thee well.”

Myra shakes her head as they pass, following her without question and mostly looking like she needs a good drink.

“What a strange woman,” the Orlesian murmurs at their retreating backs, her arms crossed over her chest and head tilted to the side.

“Yes,” Seeker Pentaghast agrees, coming to flank her left side and wearing a frown. “She is very strange. What shall we do?”

“Not a thing, Cassandra,” she grins, and even though it’s hollow and sharp, it’s more genuine than her smiles have been as of late. 

Leliana seems rather interested to see how this shall play out, like a puzzle to solve or a trail to follow. 

“Didn’t you ever like a gamble?”

The former Seeker only frowns before walking off after the only chance they have.

* * *

Their hands are shaking so profusely now it’s getting harder to hide it in the echoing caves. Their jaw trembles and they clench it to keep their teeth from clacking together.

Myra nudges them with her elbow, distracting them. “Are you alright? Do you need a healing potion?”

“I’m fine. I have um — _shit_ , I don’t know if you guys have psychology here,” they swear, fist palming herself. Their teeth chatter while they think, and they place their hand over their jaw. “Just— take it in good faith that I have a disorder that makes me way more nervous than — mostly — everyone else at any given time, all the time, and anything can trigger it.”

After a few moments of profoundly confused silence, she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I realize how ridiculous that sounds now that I tried to a-articulate it out loud. It’s called anxiety, I think.”

“I see,” Solas replies, a little bit bewildered.

“Yeah,” they shrug, moving forward to forget the feeling of being _other_ when the others all stare at them oddly. “Oh look, cave exit. Oh, hold on, bad feeling, wait a second. Oh...”

They catch up to her seconds later, staring at the dismembered bodies with nausea and shock in her eyes. “Guess we found them,” she chokes out, pressing three fingers into her cheekbone before pulling downward, a nervous gesture.

“You seem a little green there,” Varric calls, testing the waters.

“Huh? Of course not,” she insisted, huffing, even though they all saw the tears in her eyes, the way she averted her gaze and tipped up her chin in a way that said she was trying not to cry or throw up.

Myra kneels to close a few of the soldiers eyes — the ones that are facing upward, or have eyes — and quietly murmur something above them.

“Let us go, these cannot be all of them,” Cassandra orders after some pause, and the young woman ducks her head and takes off after the Seeker obediently, looking back for Myra nervously, who rushes to catch up.

Varric and Solas share a look. That could become a problem very quickly, if she doesn’t learn to become independent. The two of them seem to come to a mutual, silent agreement to not let the Chantry mindlessly control and mold this young woman if she survives.

“There’s a rift!”

The young woman takes off before they can stop her, tripping on snow and weapons and anything else in her way, but fast and determined to reach the soldiers. Cassandra approaches who must be the Lieutenant, blocking a demon from attacking her.

A soldier is cornered in a snow drift and she doesn’t think, she leaps. She throws herself in front of the demon and twists, ripping through it with a rusty dagger and gasping when its claws catch her side. She hears yelling across the battlefield but she rolls, draws her bow, and snaps an arrow into the demon's head in a freak shot she’s not sure she would’ve ever gotten in a normal situation, and breathlessly reached her hand up to the rift.

That’s all she remembers. Then everything is cold and her eyes are open but she sees nothing, and she cries out from the pain in her hand but the ringing in her ears is too loud for her to hear anyone around her. Her head sits in Myra’s lap while Solas holds the volatile mark and tries to understand it and tame it.

Her tears slowly become sniffles and she sits up, roughly wiping her face. She becomes acutely aware of the cold snow beneath her, soaking into her clothes.

“We have to move on,” she says, wincing at how hoarse her voice is. Was she screaming?

“You must wait a few moments,” a voice says from beside her— Solas.

“The temple,” she insists, albeit weakly.

Cassandra sighs. “I can carry her if it will get us moving.”

“I can do it, C—Seeker,” Myra says, looking at the girl with determination.

“With your ribs bruised the way they are? You should not be able to fight in this state, let alone carry someone; your resilience certainly has not changed,” Cassandra replies without thinking, and Myra blinks. _A compliment? Was that a compliment?_

Myra shakes her head, disregarding the way her heart flutters inside of her rib cage like a trapped bird. “That doesn’t matter. You said my resilience hasn’t changed, it hasn’t. I can carry her—”

“She can carry me. I will be okay," the other prisoner forces a half smile, half grimace.

Myra is tense for several moments, then she sighs and nods. “Okay. And you are sure you are alright with—”

“ _Yes_ , Myra,” she interrupts, insistent, and nods tersely to Cassandra. 

“I don’t want to hurt you with it,” they murmur awkwardly in place of an explanation for the way they keep their left hand tucked to them, with only one of their hands actually touching the warriors neck; and only out of necessity, for balance.

The Seeker shrugs and hefts her up to shift her weight, and after a moment, the young woman hides her face in the woman’s neck. The Seeker does not react except for a blink and shifting slightly so she can rest better, realizing in that moment exactly how exhausted she must be. They continue forward.

Liz knows they’re there when the walking slows and the smell of acrid smoke wafts into her nose, and suddenly the mark strikes pain into her. She curls into herself, crying out.

“Can you do nothing, mage?” Cassandra barks, staring down at the young woman who cannot be much older than herself when she became the Right Hand.

Solas shakes his head, unperturbed. “I cannot do anything else. We must go to the Breach.”

And then they’re walking again, but she doesn’t hear them. Hollow voices echo here, through the desecrated remains of the once-Holy temple, and she hears the cries of the silenced, of the dead, clearly in her mind.

_Prepare the sacrifice._

She starts tapping on the woman’s armor impatiently, feeling rather rude but _needing_ answers so desperately she’d rather ask forgiveness later. “Let me down, Seeker.”

The Seeker protests until she wriggles and finally almost falls out of her arms. The warrior catches her by the back of her shirt and then sighs, gently lowering her to the ground. And then she grabs Myra’s hand and tugs her into the ruin, scrambling further heedless of the loud mineral jutting up from the ground.

_Someone, help!_

“Divine Justinia...” Myra breathes, staring up at the Breach. Liz simply gapes, the tone having completely left their face, the shaking having returned.

Cassandra catches up with them, pulling them out of staring into the Breach by grabbing onto Liz’s forearm, pulling her towards her and she blanches, her stomach dropping and the guilt flooding her system as familiar to her as breathing.

“Did you know?! Do you—“

“ **No**!” She rips her arm out of the woman’s grip, her chest heaving. “I don’t—I don’t remember, I don’t know how I know, I don’t know! _This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real...”_

She buries her fingers in her hair and curls into her knees, avoiding eye contact as she tries to calm down. She hears two women arguing fiercely in the background, but she allows herself to drown it out.

“This rift must be opened and then closed for the Breach to be sealed,” a voice murmurs from beside her, turning out to be Solas; his calm and strangely stiff way of speaking helps to bring order to her chaotic thoughts.

“There will be someone on the other side,” she replies quietly, looking up at the Breach with sightless eyes, mind far away on other things. “Be ready.”

“A demon?” Solas inquires, waiting for the slight incline of her head. When she does, he calls, “Seeker! Prepare your men. There will be demons.”

This part of the battle she doesn’t remember well. Her brain was foggy and barely coherent, her vision blurry and walking almost as if on autopilot. When she re-opened the Breach, she fell into a weird state that she’s only experienced a few times in her life. Where she wasn’t herself and wasn’t not-her. She damaged demons that were straggling and stayed to the side.

Suddenly Solas was nudging her forward, Myra hovering behind them nervously. “It’s time,” he tells her, and she turns back towards him with a solemn nod.

“I know,” she replies evenly, looking past Solas to the Breach. “Time to see if I’m made for this, huh? Goodbye or goodnight, friend of the wolves."

Before he can respond to the strange, cryptic woman, she turns and connects her hand to the Breach again. Immediately, bright light erupts from it. The wind picks up around them and her right arm comes to support lifts her left, her legs trembling underneath her.

Myra comes to hold her up at some point, struggling a little bit on her own with her severe bruising near the point of mangled flesh beneath the skin. Cassandra comes to help, sharing a brief nod with the other woman and steadying the young woman closing the rift. She barely realizes she’s almost falling.

“Almost... don’t you dare...” they snarl breathlessly to the rift, weakly forcing the connection to expand.

“Do not risk it!” Solas’ voice is weirdly echoey now, even if his presence is closer than before. “If it will not seal, we can find another way! It is not worth your life!”

 _It is worth it,_ they think stubbornly, eyes now closed in concentration. They think there might blood in their mouth or glass shards in their teeth but they grasp the needle and thread of reality in their hand and it _rips—_

Her screams are pulled out of her throat just like the Breach is pulled into complacency — into dormancy. Her body collapses forward, and would’ve slammed into the ground had Myra not caught her.

The young woman is convulsing, shuddering, mumbling under her breath. Her temperature is high. Solas frantically works by her side, a knit in his brow and a bead of sweat, despite the frigid temperatures, rolls down his forehead.

“We must get her back to the town,” he says without looking up. “She needs medical attention, quickly.”

“Did the prisoner really stop it?” Someone close by whispers in awe, peering at the tired and worn face of the young woman as Myra passes with her in her arms, Cassandra by her side.

_“Andraste must’ve sent her...”_

_“...The Herald of Andraste...”_

These whispers didn’t stop once they’d brought her into the cabin. They spread, if anything. Awestruck tales of her heroism — exaggerated and most of them obviously fabricated by Varric in the meantime — popped up all around Haven and the surrounding area, telling of how she made the Breach lay dormant under her resilient — stubborn — hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up in Haven and short-introductions.

**[Right Before Shit Got Complicated, Haven, 9:42 Dragon]**

There was nothing they were particularly sure of, floating in and out of consciousness, terrified in their stasis. When they found moments of clarity, it was with no surprise that they realized they had been asleep for at least a couple days. 

Images of wolves, ravens and deer flew by them in a whirlwind, snow and lightning following close behind, something familiar, but the feeling of being _hunted_ was new; the glowing green eyes and flashes of white fur were starkly unfamiliar in feeling, and made them hide in any cranny of the dark in the recesses of their mind that they could find until it would pass, but the feeling of being _watched_ never left her.

They fought against that in between state whenever they had the energy to do so. When they grasped the edges of consciousness and pulled, their lips would quiver at their command, and the barest whisper of speech would come forth, but nothing else. It was beyond frustrating, and would only be vindicating if they didn’t fall asleep directly after devoting all of their energy to any of those tasks.

Of images, only the tiniest of glimpses she got; two bald men, one stern and one solemn but each with their own varying tells of concern, hovering over her, one with a full beard and the other with pointed ears. At one point, a man in red sat by her bedside late at night and read quietly to her, occasionally breathing tired sighs. Another night, a woman knelt next to her and ranted, prayed, and mourned. She got glimpses of gold and a light smelling perfume, but never for long. 

Myra was a constant, though, someone she did recognize; she came and sat with her every morning and every night for as long as she could, and even read to her sometimes. She only remembers bits and pieces of each time, but nearly every time Liz has woken, Myra is there or had been there previously. Ugh, her brain is so fuzzy.

They had modern medicine and waking up from anesthesia difficult, but waking up after a serious injury and magic? No small effort, they’ll assure you.

In fact, come three days later she didn’t exactly realize she’s awake at first. When she couldn’t get her body to truly cooperate, she whined in frustration.

They suddenly became aware of the sound of pacing in the room, feet against wood putting their heart into their stomach and bringing a haze of rushed consciousness and adrenaline.

No one is mad at them, right? Somewhere in their mind they think it sounds like the sound of angry footsteps down a hallway and their eyes shut, trying to keep still and not draw attention to themself. 

The Seeker stopped her pacing immediately as soon as she noticed the change in restful breathing to tight, controlled breaths, suddenly realizing there might be something wrong.

Tentatively, the warrior called to her. “... Herald?”

 _Herald? Who is she talking to? She sounds a lot like..._ _some character from a game I can’t think of right now... Ow, ow, stabbing pain in head... Never mind, try to figure it out later._

There’s a series of knocks, likely a sort of code, and then the door opens and Leliana slips inside, hood drawn, followed by Myra. “Is she awake?”

“She’s — ugh,” Cassandra throws a hand towards the distressed young woman in the bed uselessly.

Leliana immediately becomes alarmed, pulling her hood down and approaching the bed, Myra close behind. “What happened?”

“She woke up only a moment ago, and began... this,” the Seeker tries to describe, but she has always been useless with words, her fingers twitching by her sides.

“Cassandra, fetch Solas,” Leliana instructs the Seeker, who leaves immediately.

Blinking several times, Liz weakly gestures for the bucket on the side of the bed. Leliana quickly obliges and the young woman sits up as best as she can, grasping the bucket and spitting. 

Forcing her stomach contents down, she forces out, “t-turn—a-round, please...”

Leliana and Myra have just enough time to eye the young woman warily and turn before she starts vomiting. Though they both scrunch their noses in distaste, they don't leave the cabin. Eventually there’s nothing left, the young woman left pale and clammy with her head against the bucket.

The pair turns back around, both a bit apprehensive.

Leliana clears her throat. “Are you alright?”

“No,” she replies hoarsely, now more conscious and winded both by her heaving and the realization that she is in fact far from home. _Obligatory ‘this isn’t Kansas, Toto’?_ “I haven’t had my medicine in days, I think. I’ll be rather honest, I feel like shit.”

The Spymaster’s brows jump, briefly, before furrowing. “Medicine--?”

Myra looks lost. "What do you mean, Sister?"

Leliana tilts her head. "Given our setting, in the aftermath of where many Templars just were, it is a possibility she was a young Templar recruit, and needs her dose. I have heard many noble families refer to it as that. Their 'medicine'," she rolls her eyes.

The young woman, looking more like a tired child, laughs a miserable laugh against the bucket, coughing something up because of it. “Not that type. No lyrium for me, though I see why you might’ve thought so."

Myra crosses her arms, and inspects the young woman more closely, a feeling in her gut leading her to say, “You’re not quite from here, are you?”

One of her arms is wrapped around her stomach tightly and each of her breaths are deep, but uneven. The young woman met Myra’s eyes, a deep fear of being _lost_ in them.

“No. Your medicine wouldn’t be like mine. I have medicines I need to take, and when I don't my body reacts... well, as you can see,” they put the bucket on the floor, wincing from the effort, and Leliana silently comes forward to help them lean back into bed. Liz gives her a small, tired smile in thanks.

The door opens and closes. Leliana looks up from the bedside to Cassandra and Solas, the warrior staying back as the mage comes forward.

Cassandra sighs, shutting the door behind her. “How is she?”

Myra and Leliana look at the young woman, wondering if they’ll answer for themself, the answer of which being no.

They’ve drawn back whereas previously they felt at least comfortable enough to speak.

Leliana sighed. “Well, she was speaking before you entered. She seems to still be nauseous; is that right?”’

She directs the question toward her, and Liz blinks before nodding, still nervously looking at the increase of people.

Leliana hushes her, reaching to brush her hair behind her ear and then stopping when she tries not to flinch away. The Spymaster wonders if it’s her own reputation or something else entirely and decides to keep an eye on it, backing away from the bed to relaxing shoulders.

Myra comes up to the front of the bed and kneels by it. “Relax; Solas is the one who treated you before. He’s just here to check on you.”

Solas comes closer, noting how tense the young woman gets with each step, and slows his pace, allowing her time to adjust. She blinks slowly, clearly falling back asleep, and barely holding on to her consciousness, only enough to be wary.

Solas holds his hand out to her in question. Body tight as a bow string, she nods, trying to loosen herself and relax, eyes reflexively fluttering open every few moments as her breaths slow.

He sighs, hand now glowing blue, and places it over her forehead. The light dims after a few moments and he backs away. “It is really a matter of rest. A few more hours, at least.”

“Understood,” Leliana replies, cutting off a more impatient Cassandra. “I am sure we can find ways to occupy ourselves in the meantime. Thank you, Ser Solas.”

Solas dips his head and readies himself to step back out into the cold.

Leliana and Cassandra hunker down and find ways to be productive until their only hope awakens again, both trying to shoo off Myra. 

“Absolutely not,” she scoffs, standing and leaning up against the wall next to them. “You must be out of your fuckin’ minds if you think I’m leaving you with them alone.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, resorting to ignoring Myra instead of giving her a response. Leliana simply eyes the second warrior warily, who responds to the attention by jutting out her chin with a smirk, to which the Spymaster makes her own disgusted noise and turns to some notes she left on the desk.

Blinking, she realizes she’s awake in a state that isn’t half-conscious and hazy, but she does have a migraine. With this comes the usual nausea that she can barely control and she fights to keep whatever can be in her stomach down. Blindly, she reaches for the bucket, only for it to be placed in her hand. Leliana is there, with an analytical but unsure Cassandra leaning against the wall, and Myra coming to stand near the end of the bed.

She feels ready to talk to them, sort of, so she shrugs and sits up slowly, sore and aching, her hands on the bucket and immensely dizzy.

She waves a hand, but uses her other one to make a gesture to her mouth and she makes a weird face. Leliana seems to understand and turns her head just in case.

When it finally passes — mostly — they croak, “Thank you.”

“You probably need water,” Myra realizes, and Cassandra turns to pour her a cup from a pitcher sitting on the desk, passing it to Myra, who passes it to Liz.

Leliana helps her sit up again, and she sips her water gratefully, trying to not seem uncouth and gulp it all down. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Myra finally says, leaning on the end bedpost. “You gave us a scare there.”

Liz briefly ducked her head in acknowledgement, determined to do this right. “Did I close the ... Breach... thing?”

Myra looks to Cassandra, who answers, “Solas says it is no longer spreading, but it remains open.”

She nods, looking down at her hand with the mark. It feels pretty much like how she expected it to if she lived. A dormant, humming bees nest. _Oh, ouch, angry bees nest if she moves it or touches it. Noted._

Shifting up and over the bed, she winces when her joints pop and stiffen as she tries to move them. Myra stands to help her sit up, but is shooed off to unhappily stand a few feet away while Liz gets up herself.

“Are you unwell?” Cassandra asks with furrowed brows, trying to look her over for injury.

They try a half smile, forcing their legs to straighten with a grimace. “I suppose my body isn’t used to cold weather this extreme.”

“Yes,” Leliana answers, eyeing them. “One wonders where you come from, if you are not acclimated.”

She smiles a touch wryly, running her tongue along her teeth as she plays with her words. And then she settles on the three most reliable when you need to lie:

“I don’t know.”

The Spymaster merely raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I don’t know how I could’ve gotten here, Spymaster,” they replied cheekily, meeting her eyes for the title. “I know where I’m from. There’s just…” they look away. “It’s not possible for me to get here from there.”

Leliana narrows her gaze. “How do you know of my position here?”

Liz shrugs, nonchalant. “Lucky guess? You’re wearing a cowl.”

Cassandra snorts at the seemingly brass codpiece on this woman, but Leliana’s keen eyes watch carefully.

“I see,” she replied carefully. 

Her and Cassandra share a cautious look and Myra tightens her grip on the pommel of her sword, strapped to her back, and Leliana’s eyes dart between the two women who probably just need to beat the shit out of each other and get it over with. 

_On the list of things to do, find out how Cassandra knows Trevelyan,_ Leliana decides, internally rolling her eyes. _Not that dragging it out of her will be easy. Added to list: eventually acquire good wine and set aside time to talk to Cassandra._

“Settle yourself, Trevelyan,” Leliana almost smiles at the impressed look on the other woman’s face for knowing her family name already — like Cassandra didn’t just _tell_ her — and not _total_ shock and files _that_ as a compliment, “it was an observation, not an attack.”

“That’s yet to be determined,” Trevelyan replies humorlessly, eyes sparking with the tiniest amount of mirth.

Eventually the tension settles — barely — and they turn back to their... prisoner? Holy figure? To see her with the sheet wrapped around her shoulders and effectively making her more blanket than person, with only her face peeking out. She pulls it over her cheeks and eyes a bit more when they turn to face her, shrinking behind it.

Cassandra scoffs again, not in the mood for nonsense. “Where are you from, then?”

There’s a pause, and then, a tired, “Far from here; farther than you’d ever find.”

“Could it be the memory loss?” Cassandra muses to Leliana quietly, watching out of the corner of her eye as the young woman sniffles and shuffles underneath the thin sheet.

“I will discuss it with Adan, but I do not think any normal memory loss could do this,” Leliana replies under her breath.

“Of that, we are certain.”

“I mean even within the magical variety,” Leliana sighs in frustration. “No magical disaster has—“

“No magical disaster to this caliber has _ever_ happened, Leliana.”

“She seems to have general amnesia, not just memory loss,” Myra cut in, “unlike myself.”

Cassandra thinks she picks up an _unfortunately_ muttered under her breath with a sardonic roll of her eyes, but when she snaps her gaze to search for it Myra has set her face seriously once again, the only expression staring back at her one of boredom. The moment only lasts exactly that.

“Later, we can speak more about the semantics of what you both do and do not remember,” Leliana brushes both of them off, turning back to their still-undefined prisoner. “What is your name?”

“Liz,” they reply hesitantly, eyes flickering back and forth between the three women in confusion, but due to what Leliana could not parse, “Elizabeth... DuPort. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“And us as well,” Leliana replies for herself and the Seeker; Myra and Leliana and Cassandra already introduced themselves to each other days ago. “Shall we pull up a seat?”

Liz moves a bit further back on her bed, pulling the sheet with her, and pulls one leg underneath her diagonally and leaves the other hanging over the edge. She rests her chin in one hand and gestures freely with the other. “Sure.”

“As you may have noticed, Solas and our Healer Adan did say that the explosion could cause memory loss,” Leliana starts, glancing towards Myra. “For both of you, since you also came out of the raw fade. There’s no telling the impacts it had on you two—”

“However, despite this, you are still the one with the mark,” Cassandra interjects, focusing on Liz.

“I really do want to help,” Liz reiterates, her face falling a bit from the perpetual smile she generally tries to have, looking down at the mark. “I’m sorry that I don’t know what happened... and that I generally won’t be helpful. But I will try my best.”

Cassandra nods in her practical way. “That is all we can ask. We will protect you within our cause, Liz.”

“That’s a relief. Being executed is bad for your skin, I’ve heard.”

She offers her hand to Cassandra and she clasps it firmly, secretly reveling in the warmth the larger hand provides her cold fingers, even briefly. The other two turn to the Trevelyan, watching quietly.

“And? What of you, Myranna?”

Myra groaned, tilting her head back. “For the last time, stop calling me that. And…” she turns back to look at the absolutely exhausted looking young woman behind her, “... if she’s staying, I’ll stay with her. You’ll need people to help protect her, right?”

Cassandra frowns. “We are more than capable of—“

Trevelyan ran a hand through her short hair and held up a hand to cut the other warrior off. “Look, in complete honesty, I don’t want to go back to Ostwick. The Chantry there likely won’t take me now, and who knows what the Estate will look like without…” she trails off, clears her throat, and changes the subject. “It’s not a question I want an answer to. Regardless, I’m not leaving her here alone. Might as well do something useful for once.”

Leliana nudged Cassandra with her elbow, giving her a stern look, and the Seeker sighed. “... _Fine._ You may stay and help.”

Myra smirks, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t asking, Seeker. But officially, you have my word and my sword.”

Leliana almost smiles at the enraged look on Cassandra’s face, and the dopey smirk on Myra’s. It’s inspiring material, despite everything. She forces her focus forward. _There are more important things than the frivolities of flirting._

Liz leans back to consider what else they need to ask these strangers about. “Hey, hi, former-prisoner over here. Do any of you know if I came with anything and where that stuff might be?”

Myra shrugged, looked to Cassandra, who for a brief moment had an expression of panic before looking to Leliana who nodded, and all three turned back to face Liz. 

Leliana says, “They were mostly destroyed in the Conclave, however, we recovered various items of yours.”

She then reaches behind her and tugs a rather rough looking pink drawstring fake-leather bag with burn patches. Liz knows immediately that it is hers, reaching for the bag, and Leliana hands it to her without hesitation.

Liz pops open the magnetic clip and goes through what she has. In order, she finds:

The contents of her bag:

[A metal water bottle, a day planner, a notebook, reading and studying material on different spiritual, theological, philosophical and magical properties, highlighters and pens, headphones, a bunch of loose paper clips and bandaids, an American Herbology book as well as a soft-cover copy of the Lost Uses of Medicinal Herbs, tarot decks, and a small hardcover notebook that she deduces is her own prayer book, with information about her deities.]

There’s a pocket that looks like it could have something in it, but it’s probably the other bandaids that aren’t loose. She shrugs it off; she’ll look later. 

Now that Liz has closed the bag and is refocused, Leliana pulls a bag out of her pocket and pours the contents into her gloved hand.

Two familiar pieces of jewelry land in her gaze; a bronze-backed pomegranate with twinkling garnets on one side and the body of a modestly naked woman on the other, and a silver bracelet with a small charm both come into her line of vision and there’s a sudden rush of comfort.

“Those are mine,” she murmurs, gingerly taking the necklace from Leliana when she hands it to her and pulling it over her head, followed by the bracelet on her left wrist, the charm bearing the symbol of a bow and ‘Artemis’.

“They’re fascinating,” Leliana comments absently, feigning disinterest. Liz smiles at the Spymaster’s prodding.

“You could just ask,” they assure, thumb rubbing over their necklace in a familiar comforting motion. “My necklace is religious in origin, as is my bracelet.”

“I did not realize you were religious, though perhaps I should have asked,” Cassandra’s cheeks are tinged pink.

“Don’t worry about it,” they brush it off in their easy, laid back fashion, which the keen Spymaster recognizes it for what it is: complacency. “There wasn’t time.”

Leliana nods surely. “Ah, so you follow the Dalish Pantheon?”

“Ah, no,” she replies, still admiring her necklace with a soft look, clutching it in her hands to feel something solid. “You would not know them here, but I worship the Hellenic pantheon. I wear these for my goddesses.”

“So you do remember your past?” Myra inquires curiously.

“Yes and no, but that has nothing to do with the Conclave I’m sure,” Liz replies, still rubbing the bronze back of her necklace. The white of the sheets blend together in her vision as she unfocused to think. “I remember most of my past, but not what happened at the Conclave.”

Cassandra eyes her thoughtfully while Leliana is more analytical, before Liz clears her throat. “We probably have stuff to do.”

She stands and stretches, bouncing on her tiptoes and releasing a wide yawn, her jaw cracking uncomfortably. Ow. _Oh, right. I have TMJ._ She stares expectantly at the two across from her, still sitting.

“Um... sorry to bother, but did any of my clothes survive?”

“Oh, yes. My apologies. Your other odd piece did not make it, but this did…”

The red headed woman pulls out a sooty looking jacket and Liz’s eyes light up. “As long as I have clothes to go under that, I’m set.”

Within five minutes Liz has been outfitted in warm, fur lined boots, a warmer tunic beneath her ‘denim jacket’ as she calls it, thick leather pants and gloves, and almost bouncing on the tips of her toes.

“Are you guys ready? Let’s go.”

“You are full of energy, aren’t you.” Cassandra deadpans, completely out of energy from the brief interaction with the young woman, rushing from thing to thing.

“A bit,” she says apologetically, trying to slow down and not let adrenaline rush her. She messes with her hair, muttering to herself. “Don’t worry though. When I run out of energy, I’ll run out of energy.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions, introductions, introductions...

She’s greeted by a beautiful woman who looks lovely in the candlelight, the golden thread of her clothes incredibly fine and accentuating her features perfectly and a man who looks as he always does — woefully sulky, but retains that windswept Prince Charming look through the Lyrium withdrawal. 

Liz, after a brief pause, bows gracefully, sweeping her arm wide and smiling up sweetly. “Nice to meet you. Officially, I’m apparently the only chance at fixing this. My name is Elizabeth Duport. But please, call me Liz.”

She retreats, placing her hands in her pockets casually and leaning against the wall, while Myra presses her hands on the table and leans forward. Leliana and Cassandra form a half circle with the other two around the table.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Elizabeth,” Josephine says, scribbling on her weird tablet-clipboard. “Do you perhaps have any claim to the Duport’s in Eastern Orlais?”

“Ah, I do not. I’m afraid it’s just the name of a step-father that was passed to me,” she replied demurely, always cowed when reminded of the things her family had to do, and the colonialist powers that forced it to happen. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. And please, Ms--um, L-Lady Montilyet, I’m no lady.”

Josephine nods along and allows the flighty young woman time to find a comfortable place in the room, her eyes flitting constantly between the strangers as often as she could without being too noticeable; unfortunately, Josephine had an eye for details.

“It has been quite a long time since my Aunt’s balls, Lady Montilyet,” Myra grins from across the table, giving a slight bow of her own and distracting the diplomat from her thoughts. “Pleased to see you’re unharmed among all of this.”

The Ambassador blinks, surprised, before it gives way to a bright smile. “Lady Myra Trevelyan of Ostwick, are _you_ who they’re calling the Herald’s Champion? A long way you are from home, aren’t you?”

Myra blushed all the way up to her ears under tan skin, just barely visible in the candle light of the room. “No, I—I thought they were talking about Lady Pentaghast?”

Cassandra raises an eyebrow towards the other woman. “It certainly is not me they are calling the Herald’s Champion.”

“Ah, not necessarily true,” Leliana grins, “My agents have reported to me that general opinion on it is split; some have expressed sentiments that Cassandra is the Herald’s Champion, and others have expressed an adamant defense of, ‘that handsome warrior who fell out of the fade’.”

Myra’s tan skin flushes further, a dark pink in the candle lit lighting, and she rubs the back of her neck. Josephine laughs musically, and even Cullen fights a small smile.

When there’s been a small stretch of silence, Liz decides to take this moment to make it known that she Knows Things, for some reason, because she’s socially inept and unable to develop a working survival instinct.

Everyone in the room stiffens when she nods over to the man in the room who hasn't introduced himself yet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commander.”

“Explain yourself,” Cullen demands suspiciously, a hand going for his sword, and Myra raised an eyebrow, cocking her hip and her hand going to the pommel of her own sword until Cassandra made firm eye contact with her and shook her head slowly, asking wordlessly to put her trust in her.

The eventual snort says just how tentative that trust is, but Myra instead crosses her arms and resorts to staring at the Commander sternly.

Liz rolls their eyes internally. _Templar brain,_ they think.

Cullen still looks apprehensive and Leliana rolls her eyes. “Put your weapon away, Commander. She’s harmless.”

“Yeah,” she confirms, smiling a very small smile, like a young woman who hasn’t had multiple swords pulled on her in the past few days. “Also, I’m not trained in combat, so the fact that I’m even alive says something to my… divine luck.”

“You’re not combat trained?” Cassandra voices her surprise and concern. “But... the bow—“

Again, they shrug their shoulders to the ever-growing confusion of those around them. “I don’t know. I just… can. And just barely, too.”

Cassandra frowns, observing the young woman more thoroughly, whose face is carefully impassive and distant. After the initial exam, Solas had declared her some sort of traveler, if the muscles in her legs were anything to go by, and a heavy worker by the muscles in her shoulders. A little atrophied, but would be fine in no time.

Josephine nods to Cassandra and Leliana, who seem fairly reluctant, but the Antivan waves them on. She, on the other hand, seems overly enthusiastic to get a move on.

“Elizabeth, to stop this war, Most Holy held the Conclave, as you might know,” Leliana starts, obviously about to go on a very long winded speech. Myra looks on with quickly growing disdain.

However, Cassandra interjects, “which is why we are declaring an Inquisition. It was Most Holy’s directive if the Conclave did not succeed.”

Leliana gives her friend an affronted look, to which the Seeker shrugs. She also seemed to recognize a long speech in the works and being as Cassandra dislikes patience, she got to the point.

Liz just nods — not quite enthusiastically, but encouragingly, with her arms crossed in front of her. Myra seems tense and she taps her foot, a sign of wanting to pace, in her experience, and she wonders when she’s going to.

“An Inquisition?” The warrior finally exclaimed, and placed her hands on the edge of the table again. “Are you trying to start _another_ war?”

Cassandra groans; in annoyance or disgust could hardly be deciphered. “We are trying to _end_ a war, Myran- _Myra_ ,” the Seeker’s voice becomes thicker with emotion. “We are trying to make things right.”

Myra stares at her for several moments, releasing the table to pace back and forth — something Liz internally grins about — and then turns around. “Maker take it all, if I’m going to die might as well do it helping an Inquisition. No time like the present,” she laughs edgily, running a hand through her hair. “Okay. I’m still staying.”

“Thank you, Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine says from across the table with a kind smile.

“And yourself, Lady Elizabeth? You have been quiet,” Leliana comments, causing everyone to shift their gazes to them, and they moved away from the wall to come closer to the table.

“Sorry... I kind of don’t talk much unless I’m in a group of people I know,” Liz says quietly, their arms now wrapped around their middle. Myra places a comforting hand on their shoulder briefly. “I will work with the Inquisition. I just understand the situation we’re in right now and don’t have much to say. Sorry,” they cringed internally at themself and how they couldn’t stop the sorry at the end of her sentence.

“Excellent!” Josephine steps in, noting how uncomfortable Liz is under attention and taking it back to herself. “Now to answer your question, our next moves are to declare the Inquisition and spread our influence.”

Myra nods, agreeing with Josephine. “We need to gather favor if anyone is going to listen to us. What are our moves right now?”

“Leliana has information for us regarding what to do next,” Josephine says, allowing Leliana to continue.

“In the Hinterlands, there is a Revered Mother sympathetic to our cause,” the Spymaster picks up where she left off. “We want you to meet with her.”

“Where in the Hinterlands?” Trevelyan asks, eyebrow raised.

Cassandra and Cullen share a glance. Leliana answers, “At the Crossroads.”

“You want to send an untrained young woman to the Crossroads, right now?” Myra let a harsh laugh grate the back of her throat.

Liz spoke up, her voice becoming progressively more strong. “One: I’m almost sure I’m a legal adult here, don’t talk about me like I’m not capable of making my own decisions that regard my safety. Two: There’s a bit of fighting going on that we should focus on, don't you think?” They massage their swollen fingers absently, trying to get heat into them.

“Indeed,” Cullen replies, his tone heavy. “Too many have been lost.”

They nod with determination. “I agree.”

“To address your concerns, Lady Trevelyan,” Leliana suddenly says, tone grim, “what other choice do we have?”

And then there’s a thick layer of silence hanging over all of them, Liz absently tracing the map and realizing with a jolt that they can’t read all of the symbols in front of them, but Josephine clears her throat. “Now, Your Worship—“

“Woah hold on,” she shakes her head, the late registering of information beginning in her head. “They still declared me the Herald? Me?”

Cullen loudly demands, still very confused and startled, “What do you mean—“

“Because that’s _really_ not a good idea,” their pitch rises, now tugging at their shirt collar and letting out a nervous laugh that catches. “I’m not — I can’t be — there’s—“

“Liz,” Myra instructs, placing her hand back on their shoulder, squeezing once, “Take a deep breath. Focus.”

“Thank you,” they breathe, blinking their eyes open and reaching up to rub circles on their necklace in the comforting circular motion again. “Anyway, they made me...?”

“Yes,” Cassandra confirms, hands behind her back comfortably. “They see you as our only hope to fix this.”

Their face loses more blood than it had previously and she stammers on a protest. “But—“

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Cullen remarks dryly, gesturing to her hand. “You’ve got the mark.”

They inspect it for a second, the tear just barely smaller than it had been but still causing spikes of pain in her fingers.

With a small, resigned sigh, they close their hand into a fist, even as it shakes. “... well. If this is the role I must take, I will. I accept. I will help restore peace to Thedas and work...”

They cut themself off. Should they mention that there’s something worse coming? _No. Literally that’s a terrible idea,_ their best friend's voice says sardonically in their mind, briefly making her heart ache.

“... To stop this war.”

Leliana raises a brow. “Is there another threat we should be worried about?”

Liz worries her lip between her teeth. “No,” she replies slowly. _Not yet._

“Not yet?!”

 _Fuck, I said that out loud_ . They’ve already flinched against the Commanders outburst, her shoulders coming up to her ears. _Please don’t yell._

When Liz opens her eyes tentatively, her sight is covered by Myra’s back, standing in front of her defensively. She’s tense and the lines of her face more prominent due to the rather fierce expression she wears. Liz realizes in that moment that _she knows, she understands. That’s why she’s reacting like that._

Josephine steps in with a raised hand and a slightly furrowed brow, “Commander, calm yourself, please. Lady Liz, if you would?”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes against the onslaught of images; _Haven burning, bright red lyrium against stark white snow, and the roar of a dragon._

Liz realizes they’re still expecting an answer and she shudders, trying to ignore it. “I... it’s nothing. Just... um... can I request something of you, Commander?”

Cullen nods slowly, still suspicious but courteous enough to not be harsh with an overwhelmed person. 

“Can you please... please make sure that Haven is able to evacuate?”

“Your Worship, I appreciate the concern, but—“

 _The images return twice fold, faster, and more intense than before._ Briefly, her eyes shut. She digs two fingers into her temple with one hand and grips her necklace with the other.

“Commander,” she grits out through her teeth, ignoring Cassandra and Myra’s worry. “Just make sure.”

“I— As you wish.”

It’s quiet except for the scribbling of Josephine’s pen, now, and her breaths slowly return to normal. The pinched feeling of blood flow returning to her hand is the only reason she notices she no longer has her necklace clutched in her grasp.

She decides to speak up now. “It’s probably time to declare the Inquisition, right? So who’s telling that snotty Chancellor? Can it be me? Please let me—“

Leliana looks up from her own notes quizzically. “Roderick? He left for Val Royeaux two days ago.”

Her blood runs cold.

“That isn’t...” she breathes, desperately trying to not freak out and failing, multiple curses spilling out under her breath. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. He left early?! I know that’s wrong, but why is it wrong? Maybe I’m overreacting, I could be mixing events up. Calm down._

“Okay, you know what, we need to get this all sorted and then I can freak out,” she decides out loud, running a shaking hand through her hair and then returning it to the table, bouncing her leg up and down restlessly and staring at the map. “We’re enemies of the Chantry, have been declared Heretics. Need to go see Mother Giselle. Am I missing anything?”

“Not as far as I know,” Leliana says, an eyebrow arched as if to say, _and I would know. “_ Care to share your thoughts?”

Her head snaps up and she blushes, realizing her leg had been shaking the table and she had begun tapping the wood with her fingers. “N-no, I’m simply… Am I still needed? I… think it best if I return, now, to think.”

“I’ll escort her,” Myra suggests before anyone can object, rolling her stiff shoulders out and then turning her head to the others in the room. “Do you want me to come back?”

The Council exchange looks, and then a nod. Trevelyan dips her head in response, turns around, and gestures to Liz, waiting for her to be ready.

They bid her farewell, all watching quizzically after she waves a hasty goodbye and practically flies out of the room, fleeing the sightless eyes of Andraste. 

Myra can understand it. The feeling of judgement, especially when barely having the familiarity with the divine being in general, was probably strange.

Myra walks slower, more deliberately, than Liz, and Liz is already outside the Chantry door by the time Myra gets there. She’s standing, staring at the sky quietly.

“Why didn’t you go to your cabin?” Myra asked, head tilted.

Liz sighs dreamily, contrasting the hopelessness of her words. “I don’t want to go to bed yet. Talking is nice. I like pretending nothing is wrong.”

Myra blinks at the seriousness of her voice, yet the sardonic grin on her face. “I see.” They walk slowly to the cabin, Liz taking in the snowy night sky in wonder. “No one asked you how you’re doing, huh.” 

It’s a statement, not a question.

“It’s alright,” she shrugs, closing her eyes and bracing into the wind, a small genuine smile crossing her face. “Could be worse. I’m kind of used to inevitable things.”

Myra gave her a sad look before leaving her at the cabin door and grumpily walking back to the Chantry.

After Myra left, she stared aimlessly at her cabin ceiling, lost in the in-between state of liminality her ancestors must’ve been prone to with the flickering of the candle light. She prayed and prayed to the Theoi but found that whatever answers she needs, she’d have to find within herself for now.

* * *

Her hand aches when she thinks too much about it. Which is basically every minute she’s alone with nothing to distract her. _Solas knows a lot about it though… maybe he isn’t asleep yet._

Shrugging on her denim jacket and tugging on the slightly too small gloves she’d pilfered days ago, she sneaks out of her cabin into the cold night, seeking out Solas.

Half way into this search they realize that they don’t know where his cabin is, and they look up at the sky, feeling snowfall on their face somewhere in between defeat and resignation. Walking forward, they clear the snow as best as possible from a stone wall and sit, letting their legs hang over the edge. 

_Maybe I’ll see him tomorrow._

Her deep sigh punctuates the thought. _This was stupid._ What would she even say? _Hi, person I barely know, I want to ask about this thing in my hand that you know everything about and could kill me if you find out I know too much._

They rest their head in their hands.

“It’s a bit late for a stroll, don’t you think?”

Her head picks up. _Speak of the Devil…_

Solas is coming towards her, staff in hand, quietly making a path through the snow. He comes to a stop right before the stone wall.

Liz huffs. “I was—sort of looking for you,” they admit shyly, “but then I realized I don’t know where your cabin is. So I decided to sit here and mope for a bit.”

The elf chuckles. “Moping rarely does us any good now, does it?”

“No, but it does make me feel validated, so,” Liz shrugs. A part of her in the back of her mind screams _hypocrite._

He lets the corner of his lip turn up in amusement. “There is that,” he sets his staff aside and sits next to her on the wall. “Well, now you have found me.”

“I have,” she agrees, and then takes the glove off of her marked hand. Solas sucks in a deep breath at the destruction it seems to do to her; the skin burned and puckered, lightning-like flashes inside her flesh colored the same as the anchor. “It’s about… this. I want to know more. As much as you know — theories, anything.”

Solas takes her hand in his gently and murmurs a spell, the mark calming slightly. He nods, and after a considerate pause, like he was deciding on something, says: “Ma nuevnin,”

Liz smiled hesitantly and replied, “Ma serannas.”

He raised an eyebrow. She tried not to furrow hers. He seems so much like a person like this, not the evil villain they made him out to be. Of course, she knew that, had hated his story and usually chose to ignore it, but it’s different seeing it in person.

Expecting fangs and getting fur.

They duck away from the scrutiny of his gaze. “I picked it up here and there, from some… friends.”

By “friends” she means listening to the characters in the game and also using a lexicon online for writing purposes. It suddenly occurred to her that _she’s a fanfiction trope_ and she swallowed down her discomfort.

Solas didn’t press, and if he questioned the authenticity of her story he gave no indication of such. He moved their attention to the mark.

“I believe the mark to be…”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations about mythology and history over nightmares, and war meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this way earlier this week. Kept procrastinating. Woops.

**[Early Next Morning, Before The Sun Has Risen, 9:42 Dragon]**

Myra, when nightmares of green fire and constricting air and skittering noises wake her up, finds herself rushing out of her tent — she had insisted she not be treated any differently — into the harshness of the cold, grounding herself firmly in the present. The grief of losing her brother still aches in her chest, but that is manageable. She breathes in the cold air once, exhales a cloud, and does this several times until the tears pricking at the edge of her sight finally dry.

Ahead of her, she sees a small light coming from the docks. _That’s bizarre. But do I care enough to look?_ She weighs her options and shrugs. _Can’t hurt. I’m awake anyway._

She doesn’t try to hide her steps, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t startle the person curled up with a candle just barely staying lit and a book in her lap — Liz!

 _“Liz_ ,” she exhales her name, half scolding and half admonishing, speeding up her pace, coming to kneel by the young woman.

Though she had clearly bundled as best as possible, Liz’s nose was bright red, as were the tips of her ears. She had a barely noticeable tremor, but seemed in no rush to leave.

“Liz, you need to come inside,” the warrior urges when she doesn’t reply.

“Couldn’t sleep. Came out here to get some air.”

Myra sighs, shoulders slumping a bit. “I understand. I couldn’t either.”

Briefly, there’s only the sound of wind blowing through the vaguely dark mountains. Then, Liz speaks again. “I got some reading done when I had sufficiently calmed down. It still doesn’t help.”

They shiver harshly and sigh, blowing out their candle. “I think I’ll finally go inside, though. You’re welcome to come with me; I’m not going to be sleeping for a while. I’ll probably read.”

Myra shrugs, standing up and backing up off the dock, allowing Liz and her to retreat to her cabin.

When Liz is curled up comfortably in her chair and Myra is laying with her hands behind her head on the bed, Myra says,

“So, sovereign for your thoughts?”

Liz sighed and leaned her head back against the chair. “How am I supposed to be a Herald to a place I don’t know? Have no connection to? I am far from my own gods and goddesses; and they’d certainly never choose me for something like this. I am nothing like their stories heroes -- like Perseus, Adonis, Achilles or Patroclus, nothing like Helen or Cassandra or Andromeda. I am not a girl someone starts a war over. I am not the deliverer of--” her face paled, quieting. “Perhaps I am more like Cassandra than I previously thought.”

“Who is Cassandra?” Myra asked with interest.

Liz sighed, and Myra tracked the movement of her head as she turned to look outside to the falling snow as she gathered the story in her mind. 

Finally, she began. “Cassandra, in the myth, had promised to lay with the God of prophecies, healing, the Muses, Apollo, in return for the ability to see prophecies. Of course, as in all stories regarding hubris, she refused him once she was given the gift, and thus then she was cursed by Apollo that any prophecy that came upon her, no one would listen.”

“So… how are you like her?”

They’re silent for several moments. “Well,” they begin contemplatively. “The myth’s are not as they seem. Most were written with a political intention of some sort and definitely altered over time by Athenian democrats--”

“I don’t know what a lot of this means, you know,” Myra interrupted briefly, with a playful grin.

However, it made Liz’s shoulder’s slump. “I know. But I can’t possibly explain the entirety of Athenian democracy to you and how mythology changed over the course of years, so you’ll have to learn as we go. That is, if… you want to hear more.”

“Of course I do,” Myra replied genuinely, seeing relieved eyes continue to look out towards the snow but curve into a genuinely delighted smile.

“In that case…” she takes a deep breath. “Athenian democrats were like any man you could find: opinionated about who they could fuck and who their wives could not.”

“Liz!” the warrior gasped.

“Oh please,” they rolled their eyes. “Like misogyny isn’t rampant here? Will believe it when i see it. The damn writers had a plethora of issues _not_ related to elves and mages and racism.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” they shake it off, continuing. “Athenian democrats were sexist, but it’s unsurprising. Greek culture, from where the myths originate, was heavily patriarchal. That the myths shaped to reflect the time surprises no one. However, I find myself reimagining them often, and slimming them down.

Their head falls onto their knees. “And then, Cassandra is simply a girl feeling the wrath of her god; speaking and unable to be heard. Imagine if you held the answers that could save lives, but no one would listen? I am afraid I will…”

Myra was beginning to learn that Liz had a tendency for trailing off and not finishing her sentence, or finishing it several sentences later. She patiently waited, her eyes growing heavy between the conversation and the pleasant warmth of the cabin.

“How do I lead a religious movement knowing I am not what they need -- and cannot be?” She finally says, clearing her throat. “What if I fail them--what if I become Cassandra, helpless?”

Trevelyan blinks, sitting up a bit. “I… hadn’t realized this weighed on you quite so heavily.”

“It’s all I think about,” Liz admitted, expression weary in the candlelight, the side profile casting shadows over the young woman that made her appear older, accentuated deep, tired lines under her eyes . “I don’t know how to be what they need. I’ve never been able to be what _I_ need.”

“My advice… fuck ‘em,” Myra says, eliciting an alarmed noise from Liz. “I don’t mean abandon the cause; I mean, with…” she gestures to the hand, pulsing under the glove. “I just mean be yourself. Do what you can. Don’t let what they expect from you keep you from living.”

Liz mutters something under her breath. “I know you are right. But that doesn’t mean it rests any less heavily in me.”

“It won’t,” the warrior admits to her quietly. “It’s never going to rest any less heavily.”

* * *

Cassandra knocks on the door once before hearing ‘ _come in’_. Liz sits with an empty mug on her table, another in her hand and in the other a book. She’s raptly reading a book that of which the title the Seeker cannot tell.

Candle stubs and at least two other books that the Seeker can see haphazardly lay on the table and her hair appears unbrushed. A blanket is over her knees, but otherwise she wears a simple tunic and pants. _Who is outfitting this young woman?! She must be freezing._

With a disapproving eyebrow raise, Cassandra says, “I see you had a late night?”

“The tea here is like nothing I’ve ever had,” Liz replies without looking up, immune to the disapproval and taking a large sip. Her fingers seem stiff around the handle of the mug, almost fixed in place. “I’ve never gotten this much energy from tea. Yours has more caffeine.”

Cassandra furrows her brow. “Caffeine?”

Barely paying attention, the young woman looks up, frowns, and then looks back to her task. Her answer is distracted, almost like she’s physically pulling the information from another part of her brain.

“What? Oh, right. Caffeine is like... a chemical? Yeah, it’s a chemical in different plants that can convince people’s brains that they have more energy. Your tea has much more caffeine than the stuff I used to have.”

The warrior just nods slowly, not entirely understanding and repeats, “You had a late night, I presume?”

“You could say that,” Liz replies absentmindedly, turning the page faster than Cassandra has seen most people read.

 _She’d give that insufferable dwarf a run for his money,_ the Seeker muses.

Cassandra nods, holding her hands behind her back. “I see. Well, I am here to escort you to the war council, if you are agreeable.”

“Time to get mission planning already?” The books get tucked away into the pink bag that Cassandra had seen Leliana dig through before it was returned to the young woman.

“Yes,” Cassandra answers, patiently waiting while the young woman tugs on patchwork leather gloves over stiff fingers.

“Myra, get up, it’s time to get mission planning,” Liz suddenly turns around to her bed, causing the Seeker’s stomach to sour slightly.

Blearily, the warrior blinks her eyes open and reaches over to ruffle Liz’s hair, rubbing her face and sitting up to pull her overcoat and shoes back on.

“Lady Duport, I wish to speak with Myra for a moment,” Cassandra requests, hands behind her back.

Liz pouts. “Call me Liz or Elizabeth, please,” but doesn’t resist and leaves the cabin, shutting the door behind her. 

Myra raised an eyebrow at the Seeker, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “You know, if you wanted me alone, Cassandra…”

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust, cutting straight to the point. “Why were you sleeping in the Herald’s quarters?”

Myra furrowed her brow in confusion. “I fell asleep here; Liz and I had trouble sleeping last night, I found her outside early this morning. I fell asleep while we were talking.”

The Seeker paces for a moment, opening her mouth and closing it before pressing her lips into a thin line. Myra sighs in frustration. “Just spit it out!”

“It is improper for you to have such a relationship with her,” the Seeker rushes out, saying the words so fast Myra was barely sure she heard correctly.

“‘Such a’... oh, gross, sweet Maker, Cassandra! She’s a practically a kid!” Myra wrinkled her nose. “I care about her like a little sibling. I could never look at her that way. I guess I forgot about all the weird propriety things while being a simple chantry guard,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck.

Cassandra releases a sigh of relief. “I see. Very good.”

Myra nods and they drop the issue, and she expects them to leave from there. But Cassandra steps forward, inspecting Myra’s face more thoughtfully, careful concentration on her face, and adorable in a hundred different ways as to in their youth — and still heart stopping.

She tries not to blush under the scrutiny and grins a little bit, tilting her head at the Seeker. “See something you like?”

The Seeker snorted. “You wish,” but the side of her lip curled up. Her hand almost came up to curiously touch the scar running through her upper lip, but with a discipline Myra knows she herself doesn’t have, she clenched it into a fist and dropped it. “Where did you get…” she uses her other hand to gesture to the area on her own mouth.

Myra brings up a hand to hover over her lip and the scar, eyes drifting to the wall. “This was during my tenure as a chantry guard in Ostwick.”

Cassandra seems unwilling to leave it there. “And…?”

“I got it in a valiant fight. I won, the end.”

“Always so flippant,” the Seeker sighs, clearly trying to convey disgust, but her eyes are wistful and reflective of the past. “What a life you have lived, since the last time I have seen you.”

Myra chokes back a sudden wave of emotion, refusing to let the conversation go further when there are things at stake (and when the subject matter is so sensitive). “I suppose we both have. Come on, we have to go.”

Cassandra sighs deeply, opens the door for Myra and shuts it behind her. Liz groans in exaggeration at how long they took, a smile on her face letting them know she was teasing.

“Come,” the Seeker beckons, starting forward, and they follow after her, falling in step with the confident warrior.

* * *

Snow crunching under their boots is the only thing that accompanies them as the three walk to the war room, and while she frequently enjoys silence to think, this type of silence just makes her jumpy.

As they enter the War Room, she messes with the frayed edges on her jacket or rubs her necklace. When they’ve all gotten into their respective spots and have exchanged greetings, Cassandra breaks the silence.

“We must discuss the mark,” Cassandra noting the pair of gloves she now wears. “How is it? Does it trouble you?”

Liz crosses her arms at the mention of it. “No more than if you bumped your elbow like, a few times,” she waves off the question, heat burning in her cheeks at the attention. “Don’t worry about it. This isn’t the most painful thing I’ve dealt with.”

Cassandra looks ready to challenge, but nods and says, “the healer, Adan, and Solas are available if you need them.”

The Herald nods. “Noted. Speaking of Solas, I visited him last night. He told me it needs more power?”

Cassandra and Cullen seem visibly unnerved by this prospect, but the Seeker answers regardless, “Yes.”

“Which is why we should approach the rebel mages,” Leliana proposes, eyes flinty and staring firmly at the Commander.

He tightens his jaw, ready to fire back, but Liz has heard this argument enough times to know she doesn’t want to sit through it again.

“The Templars could still—“

“May I interject?” Liz suddenly says, a little too loudly and flushing bright red, but she soldiers on with the confidence she had garnered, “I get where you’re both coming from — but neither group is going to listen to us right now. Arguing among ourselves gets us nowhere right now.”

“The Herald is absolutely right,” Josephine says brightly. “Coming to a decision can wait. We have more to worry about at the moment than that.”

“Indeed,” Cassandra comments dryly, looking for all the world like she’d prefer to be anywhere else than a political discussion.

“I would, however, like to know where our Herald stands,” Leliana inquires, her eyes sharp. “After all, the figurehead of our organization will have to make a decision at some point.”

Myra placed a hand on Liz’s now tense shoulder. “Figurehead?”

The Council exchanged uncomfortable looks. “The Herald of Andraste is an evocative image. Many have begun to look to us _for_ the Herald,” Josephine says carefully.

Liz squirms uncomfortably under the scrutiny, her mouth being tugged downwards slightly in a frown.

Cullen clears his throat. “I would like to know your thoughts on the matter as well, my Lady.”

Liz runs a hand through her hair. “It’s complicated. Guilt complex.”

Leliana tilts her head. “Go on…”

“I want to support the rebel mages. No, I absolutely do support the rebel mages,” she sighs, like saying the words out loud attached them to her feet as weights. She holds up a hand to the Commander’s near-immediate outburst, imperceptibly flinching at his expressive engagement but managing to stay composed. “No, listen to me. They’re treated as subhuman. It’s like elves — neither of these groups deserve to be treated this way. They deserve rights, and a place to feel safe—“

 _Staring in the mirror—do my ancestors stare back fondly? Do I make them proud? Am I enough as I am? Trauma passed through generations, the ache in her chest calling for home, for family._ Work roughened finger tips tracing the slopes of her cheekbones and the flatness of her nose. _My people have suffered enough grief. No more shall anyone else suffer the same, if I can do something about it._

The flood of thoughts push her to tears and near distraction. She takes a moment to wipe her eye and her voice cracks when she decides to talk again.

“I cannot let them be killed this way,” she murmurs, pain in her voice, and no one knows if she’s talking about elves or about the mages. When she speaks next, her voice is eerily even. “and… the Templars. Ruthless. The Chantry’s tool, controlled by lyrium, as much as the handled as the handler.

“And if we’re being honest,” Liz says slowly, her fingers tracing the wood of the table, gaze unfocused on the wall, “if to save every mage and elf in Thedas I had to let the Templar Order die, I would. Gladly. In my rational mind I despise what this order represents. It represents…”

 _Colonialism. Pain. Ancestral bonds broken and forged again._ Unconsciously, she clenched her fist. She knows the Templars did not commit the acts she is remembering -- but they are similar, they are reminiscent of cruelty.

“... Unspeakable evils that are not unlike the devastation wrought on my people,” she breathes, biting her lip. The room is so silent you could hear a stone drop. “And yet, a stupid, stupid part of me does not want to abandon the small amount of Templars who were mislead, abused, and left behind by the Chantry. It must be a terrifying life to lead; indoctrinated and repenting for petty comforts, and to then learn the things you did in what you believed was justice were actually cruel.”

Her words have different effects on everyone at the table. Josephine writes effortlessly, blowing every now and then on her ink, but she has a very pleased expression on her face. Leliana seems solemnly contemplative but, for once, also rather pleased; Cassandra is frowning, her brow furrowed, but it seems to be a look of deep thought and not out of malice. Myra seems sympathetic and continues to hold the Herald’s shoulder comfortingly. 

Cullen is the only one outwardly affected negatively, now pale and troubled looking.

“Please don’t mistake me, though,” she adds, her words soft, yet pointed, “I will choose the mages if there were a choice. But those are my thoughts on it as a whole.”

Liz scrubs at her eyes aggressively and sniffles, using her palm to force excess tears out. Myra pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to her, prompting a small “thanks.”

“I’m sorry I’m so dramatic,” Liz says weakly, sniffling.

“I wouldn’t say you’re dramatic at all, Your Worship,” Josephine coos gently. “That was very well spoken and articulate.”

“I have always been called too sensitive,” Liz smiles a rueful, weak smile, looking down to count on her fingers. “Thin-skinned, weak—“

“Whoever has said that is wrong,” Myra says calmly, strongly, from her side, turning Liz to face her so she can make eye contact with her seriously. “To be able to weather what you have had to since the Breach opened, I’d say you’re the exact opposite. It’s important to have informed, and yes, emotional opinions on these types of things. You’re right where we need you, Liz.”

Liz nods, tears almost forming at the steady, reassuring nature of the words, but she just smiles a small, genuine smile.

“So you guys are going to train me before we go out, right?” Liz asks with a touch of anxiety, after a few moments of lengthy silence.

Cullen and Cassandra exchange a look. “Yes,” the Commander answers finally. “that was something we wished to discuss with you, actually. You used a bow and are rather dexterous; you train as a rogue, yes?”

“I don’t… really have a class? Or know what I’m doing. But…”

 _You should ask for sword training! It could be useful._ Then her heart sinks into her stomach. _I’m too sick to be useful as a sword fighter._

“But if you train me in archery I should be fine,” she answers demurely instead, looking at the map.

Cassandra snorts derisively. “Nonsense. We will train you as the Commander and myself have learned — so that you may defend yourself against a warrior if you must, which means—“

“A sword,” Liz whispers, her eyes practically filled with stars.

Leliana, Myra and Josephine share a chuckle, Leliana’s in particular a deep thing that makes Liz feel like she definitely is being made fun of. 

“Yes, a sword. You’re rather excited about this prospect, I see,” the Spymaster borders on teasing, but this early on Liz knows she’s just trying to see how much information about her as a person she can widdle out.

Liz plays with her necklace. “I’ve always wanted to train with one, I just never had the chance before.”

“I’ll help with her training, yeah?” Myra nods to the Seeker and the Commander, head tilted.

Cassandra scowls slightly and goes to oppose — likely just for opposition's sake — but Cullen answers before she can, “We would love to have your help, Lady Trevelyan.”

The Seeker looks betrayed and huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine,” she says, after a long moment of scowling.

Liz looks between the three of them. Training is going to kick her ass, but she’d rather not die, so.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training, a meal, a new identity...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mention of menstrual illness and birth control (cause realism, but it's only discussed in the first paragraph or so, so you're welcome to skip it.) and brief mention of EDNOS in the beginning, it's more defined at the scene where they're in the tavern, so if that's going to trigger you skip from the line "They don't talk about what she said," to "When they've each eaten sufficiently,"
> 
> If that needs to be moved to a different point, please let me know!
> 
> Blessed Solstice everyone!

**[Haven, 9:42 Dragon]**

Cassandra makes her get up at the asscrack of dawn the next day, but jokes on her because she’s already awake. Liz stared up at her with tired eyes perpetually surrounded by light circles of fatigue and folded hands.

They shared a brief meal together. Briefly, while the Seeker was distracted, she pocketed the rest of her bread, and then informed Cassandra she was too full to eat the rest of the food. In all honesty, she was too nauseous to eat. She always felt like that in the morning. Especially without a regular routine of medicine. 

_I’ll have to study Thedas herbalism and go from there,_ they realize in annoyance. _I can probably swing this._ They suddenly grimace. _Don’t know how to make birth control. Fuck. What was the dosage chart El always talked about? And what herbs were best for it? Endo in this economy? Yikes.  
_

Their attempt at levity didn't help, because the joke only reminded them how far from home they are.

Cassandra spends longer than necessary -- in their opinion, tired, grumpy and not hungry -- trying to convince them to eat, but eventually, realizing that they really weren’t going to, they head to the training yard, where Cassandra leads them through stretches that are typical of a warrior to prepare them, and then sends them on a run. Liz almost groans, but instead inhales a deep breath and forces their legs to comply, despite feeling the slight strain.

When she returns from her run, Myra is waiting with Cassandra, a teasing smirk on her face already and a slightly annoyed one on the Seekers. She barely notices her, too focused on her training— and trying to stay standing. 

“We," she starts, looking pointedly at Myra as she says it, "will not be starting you with a sword today. I want to see your dexterity and strength first. We will be sparring, teaching you defensive and offensive moves, and then what your skill with a bow is.”

Determined, Liz nodded and huffed, her breath floating away on the wind in thick clouds of condensation.

By the end of the sparring they’re laying in the snow groaning and they can hear Varric’s mocking laughter through promises to get their story out of them.

“Just you wait,” she had panted in warning, “I’ll be able to take you down, Varric. Watch out for your little dwarf legs, because I’ll be biting on your ankles soon enough!”

A guffaw of raucous laughter echoed through the snowy valley. “Keep hoping!”

“Enough,” Cassandra barked, frustrated, and Liz's head snaps back to her with a blush, embarrassed at having lost focus again.

“Yes, Seeker.” Liz’s reply is demure and she scratches nervously at her hands.

Several hours later of sparring and then testing her skill with the bow, Myra nods to an exhausted Liz, and Cassandra sighs.

“We will end here for today. Go, freshen up, Lady Montilyet wanted to see you.”

Liz nods and thanks the Seeker for her time before turning on her heel towards Haven, Myra falling in step with her.

Later, as she cleans her armor, Cassandra thinks about how Liz did. Not bad for her first day. Her sparring could use improvement, yes, and it seemed she knew more defensive tactics than anything — this was proven by the Herald herself, who remarked almost thoughtlessly, “never know when you might need to know how to not get stabbed.”

Cassandra had asked what she meant, but Liz seemed surprised that she said it at all and replied that she didn’t remember very well. The look on her face — a twisted frown, uncertain and tense — told Cassandra otherwise, well versed in facial expressions due to her training. The Seeker is quite sure that she remembers a bit more than she says in that respect, but she drops it, as interrogating her over it would only cause unnecessary stress. There are more important things to worry about:

Like her fighting. She’ll improve. And hopefully stop fighting like each one is her last.

* * *

Liz, on the other hand, is aching with every step she takes and not thinking much at all, dropping any piece of armor she can as soon as she gets into her cabin. A tub of water and a washcloth is already waiting and she thanks whoever’s listening for the foresight of whoever did that. _I’ll have to leave them something_ she thinks in relief.

She doesn’t linger, only staying in enough time to wash her hair and body. The water is hot, but not the way she likes — her nerves are so fried she’s surprised this warmed her at all. But she can finally clean herself, and with how many anxiety and texture based compulsions she has, she _needs_ this.

And after not having a shower for so long, she’s beyond thrilled to have a washcloth and some soap, lightly scented — she thinks it might be courtesy of Josephine, and she might cry in relief — to scrub her skin until it’s red and raw, and use a knife to get under her fingernails. She drops it with a clang next to the tub, along with the cloth that she first wrung out into the murky water.

After painfully exiting the tub — this cold really is terrible for her joints and these low tubs are going to kill her, she realizes — she finds a curious material used to brush her teeth, and she’s delighted to find it’s a root, scrubbing until her mouth doesn’t feel disgusting.

Then they dry their hair the best they can, ties it back with a strip of leather, gets dressed and heads out to see Lady Montilyet. Wind greets them immediately as they step out of their cabin and they tug their jacket closer around them with slightly trembling limbs, shivers wracking their body. _Dammit, bad circulation._ They pull a hood over their still-damp hair and step out into the cold.

“Hey!”

Her head swivels. Varric has his hands on his hips like a disappointed mother. She giggles at the thought, but still raises a hand in greeting, pivoting slightly from her original destination of the Chantry.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he says as he approaches, like they’re not both under Chantry surveillance in a small mountain town, and that he hadn’t seen her earlier. “Where are you going?”

“Lady Montilyet’s,” they reply, head tilted.

“Not anymore you’re not,” Varric grins, both disarming and indicative of trouble, “She’ll understand. You and I are going to go get something to eat.”

Alarmed, she looks between the rapidly becoming further away Chantry and Varric. She doesn’t want to make him unhappy by going to where she needs to be, and she doesn’t want to make Lady Montilyet unhappy by not being there.

He doesn’t appear to notice — or pretends not to — as he escorts her to the Singing Maiden, and she lets the hood fall as they enter the warm, lively tavern, where at a back table Myra sits with a mug of ale.

“Now,” he says after he’s ordered and Liz is sat next to Myra, turning to face her like an interrogator ready to pry her life from her with a crowbar. “You’re alive, kid. I believe we have a bet to settle.”

At first she stares at him with her head tilted, and then realization clicks in like a puzzle piece. “Oh! My name. I’m Liz. Nice to meet you again, for real.”

“Liz. Nice to meet you again too, kid,” he smiles genuinely, before his expression turns serious, leaning in close. “Now that the Seeker’s out of ear shot... how’re you holding up?”

She shrugs, and then she holds up her hand in a _‘so-so’_ gesture. “Alright.”

“I don’t think anyone who falls out of a green hole in the sky is ‘alright’,” Varric scoffs disbelievingly, Myra raising her mug in agreement.

“Well, no, probably not,” she replies dryly, taking a sip from the mug of tea she was brought. “But I’m doing fine, I guess. Should I be doing worse?”

“It ain’t gonna get any easier kid. If I were you, I’d run now.”

Liz becomes quiet, the same familiar tightness coming to her throat that has every time she’s thought about running. Her hands clutch the mug tighter. He takes this as encouragement to continue.

“It wouldn’t be easy, but—“

“No, I can’t,” she insists, shaking her head. “I… look at everything. How can I leave?”

“Alright, alright. You hero types always..."

Liz gasped, like they'd been struck. "I am not a hero," they managed to get out. "I am stuck in this situation with nothing else to do; I can't let people die, so I must adapt. It is what it is."

Varric sighs and waves a hand, a sudden bout of weariness coming over him. 

"Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you..."

They look miserable curled up on the other side of the table, arms on the table and shivering a little bit despite the warmth of the Tavern, and looking very tired. _They’re still recovering_ he realizes suddenly, dizzy with the realization.

Liz lifts her head up and holds her chin in her hand, elbow on the table. "Noted."

Varric switches his attention to the older woman quietly nursing her drink. “What about you over there, Undertaker?”

A brief look of grief washes over every angle of Myra’s face, and it’s gone as quick as it was there, nonchalance and a shrug replacing the pain. 

“Not much to say. I am Myra Trevelyan of Ostwick. I am — was, a chantry guard. I had not seen my brother in several years and my parents sent him as a representative for our family to the Conclave. I figured I could take a job guarding some officials and come to the Conclave and see my brother.”

Varric shakes his head. _“Those_ Trevelyan’s? Maker, I’m… sorry to hear that. Maybe he’s out there?”

“Maybe,” Myra mutters, staring at the ale in her mug, but it doesn’t sound like she believes it.

Varric turns to the other person he can question, “... so, where are you from?”

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?” Liz said, throwing a crooked grin his way, dipping her head. 

Varric recognizes the gesture for what it is and his smile faded. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Their lunch arrives then, and Liz fumbles to move things off the table for Flissa. And then she tips her a few coins she found in her cabin — hell if she knows the coin worth here — and smiles gratefully at her as she leaves, nodding her head. They don't talk about what she said.

Varric dives into his food while she hesitates, beginning to pick at her roll. Stress makes it hard for her to eat, nausea owning the expanse of her abdominal organs. Even thinking about eating makes her want to spit out the food she’s slowly chewing and forcing herself to swallow.

Varric looks up at her at some point during the meal and says, “you need to eat if you’re going to get any meat on your bones, you know.”

Liz stares at him in disbelief, looking down at herself slowly with narrowed eyes. “Are you kidding? I’m all meat.”

Okay, sure. She’s a bit self conscious about her weight. Maybe she has an eating disorder, she never felt the need to classify it.

Her doctors, however, did.

Apparently, even if you stay at what’s considered a healthy weight, if you obsess over it compulsively and don’t eat for extended periods of time, it’s an issue.

“You lost a bit of weight during the whole...” he waves an open palm over her marked hand. “... _thing_.”

“Oh? Did I?”

“Did you really not notice?” Varric asks her.

She shrugs, blushing a bit under his gaze. It seems nothing really escapes him, even in what she doesn’t say. Damn these people who don’t live in the most immersive, superficial society like she knows she does — or did. This place continues to confuse her already confused brain. These people stop to think, to analyze, to look, and yeah: _she feels a bit seen!_

“Well, maybe you’ll eat something tomorrow,” he ventures when she doesn’t eat anything else.

Myra nudges her. “C’mon,” she mutters lightly. “Eat a little.”

Grumpily, Liz eats a tiny bit of the meal; some potatoes and a few bites of bread, but can stomach no more.

When they’ve each eaten sufficiently, Varric slides out of his chair, leaving more than enough for their meal and a tip.

Her eyes can’t leave the motion, murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ to the dwarf, fully knowing she is reliant on his kindness. Even as she shoves the roll she didn’t finish in her pocket for later, the image of a past friend paying for her doesn’t leave.

“I’ll walk with you to Josephine’s,” Varric says as the three of them step out into the cold.

Liz’s hair has been dried by the warmth of the tavern, but it’s still colder than a witches tit. They nod and shove their gloved (but still cold) hands into their pockets.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

 _Oh, that’s hilarious._ “Wait until I’m comfortable. You won’t get me to shut up.” Liz replies dryly.

Varric laughs. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What, that I’ll get comfortable?”

He sighs at the sardonically raised eyebrow. “You’re a downer, you know that?” Her shrug tells him that she’s got some idea. “I meant that you'll start spouting. I mean, can barely get two sentences out of you when the Seeker is around.”

“Seeker Pentaghast is — intimidating,” she admits, hands curling up with a wince.

“You can just call her Cassandra, you know. I don’t think you’re gonna get crucified for it,” Varric says with some amount of humor, but it just makes her stare harder at the ground as they walk.

Myra scoffs disbelievingly. “Never know…”

“You know, you have to tell me your history with the Seeker eventually,” he teases, then turns his attention back to Liz, who shakes her head resolutely.

“I’d just…. Rather not.”

Varric and Myra share a confused look, both turning quizzical gazes on her. Suddenly it spills out of her, the words tumbling out before she can stop them and her pulse racing, “Well, what if she gets mad at me for being informal? She calls _me_ the _Herald,_ and thinks I’m from her God sent to save everyone, so I _can’t_ call her Cassandra — plus she’s older than me _and_ the _Right Hand_ and—“

“Slow down!” Varric calms her, his hands coming to rest on her forearms. _When did he move in front of her?_ “I don’t even like the Seeker much, but I don’t think she’d get mad at you for calling her Cassandra.”

“But she hasn’t _said_ I can,” Liz struggles to emphasize, their face flushing under Varric’s confusion and evident sympathy. “So I won’t.”

He raises his hands in surrender, Myra shaking her head slowly behind Liz’s back indicating to let it go. “Alright, alright. I won’t push you.”

They walk in what Liz thinks might be an awkward silence to Josephine’s office. Varric knocks for them, waiting patiently for the Ambassador to ask them to come in.

“Ruffles! How are you doing?” Varric greets the Antivan with open arms and a grin.

“Master Tethras, Lady Trevelyan, what can I do for you?” asks Josephine pleasantly, glancing up briefly for only a moment and only noticing the Herald after a second look.

Varric walks further into the office, Myra following him and behind her, the Herald, shyly waving at Josephine. The Ambassador returns the wave with a gentle smile, becoming more accustomed to the Herald’s personality and even more mystified by her shyness.

“We just—I just came to see you, like Seeker Pentaghast told me to, but if you’re busy I can come back,” the Herald says quietly, in a rush, wringing her hands together. Her nose is scrunched up nervously. Varric shakes his head and pats the young woman's shoulder.

“I always have time for the Herald of Andraste,” the Ambassador replies amicably, to which young woman retreats further. 

To her surprise and a bit of horror — because she’d never want to make her uncomfortable — this was the wrong thing to say, something that this far in her career, rarely happened. 

“I— please, none of that,” she whispers, rubbing her chin with her thumb and looking anywhere but at the Ambassador. “If you have other things to do, Herald or not, I’d come back later.”

Varric pats the young woman's back. “It’s okay, kid. Take a seat, she’s got time for us, right Ruffles?”

The look he gives her says to drop the _Herald_ issue, and being the suave diplomat she is, she does so posthaste. He and Myra share a nod, satisfied.

“Us?” Liz asks him, confused, but her eyes betray a type of relief.

He nods soothingly as the two of them take a seat in front of Lady Montilyet’s desk. The ‘ _Herald_ ’ looks steadfastly at her legs, her posture straight and tense.

“It’s lovely to see you, Herald, Master Tethras, Lady Trevelyan. We have much to go over...”

“Please don’t call me that,” Liz mumbles, tugging on her ear self consciously. “And I... first, do you mind if I…?”

Josephine nods kindly, allowing the young woman time. She exhales deeply and finally says, “before we get to what you wanted to talk about, I think w-we should discuss a story, for me.”

The Ambassador’s eyes narrow slightly in thought, but then her lips turn downward softly; sympathy. “I see. One moment, my lady.”

The Ambassador stands up with grace, but Liz wonders if she could do it any differently, _embodying_ grace the way she does. She was slightly jealous.

Josephine walks to the door to summon a messenger, beckoning them over with a gentle wave of her hand. Hushed words are exchanged before she returns to her desk, satisfied.

“What brought this on, if I may ask?”

Liz rubs the back of her neck. “I, um...”

Varric nods her on, encouraging. Liz clears her throat. “You want to know about my family situation right? Who I am and where I'm from? We need to get t-that cleared b-before someone else d-does."

Josephine blinks, surprised.

The Ambassador remembers when they brought her in. Flushed skin, soot covered lashes and tear tracts, burn patches and raw skin... it was messy. She cried for many people in the first days, but the one of the only hands she held was Josephine’s, with a grip tighter than a vice.

Her very large coat with a strange mechanism in the front — that didn’t survive the blast well enough to be usable, unfortunately upon examination— had wear and tear. Her oddly stitched, tight pants of denim were frayed on the inside edges, and her long-sleeved tunic that did survive had holes near the wrists on each side.

With interest, the Ambassador leaned forward on her elbows, hands folded over her mouth. “Pardon my forwardness, my lady, but what is your education? Do you know?”

“I’m… I have like, sixteen years of school, give or take?” 

Josephine blinks back at Liz. _Another thing that makes me out of place._

"Sixteen years?" Varric whistles, leaning back in his chair. "You'd have to have been in school when you were..."

"About four or five years old, yes," the Herald affirms, brow furrowed in concentration and one leg drawn to their chest on the chair. “Um... I can read, write, do math, science, history -- though I guess that is useless now -- politics...”

“You know how to read?”

“I can read a whole book overnight if I’m left alone,” Liz replies, excitement creeping up her cheeks that she fights to control. "I love reading."

“You’re fairly educated, then?” Josephine clarifies, her quill scribbling nonstop now.

“Mhm, education is commonplace where I’m from.”

Josephine makes a noise of interest, but for fear of startling the young woman she continues what she’s doing. “How commonplace?”

“Every child in my country has to be entered in school once they’re… four? I think,” they reply, biting their lip. “And it ends when you’re eighteen.”

The Ambassador looks up in wonder. “Truly?”

“Yeah,” they smile a bit at Josephine’s interest, but it falls fast as. “I don’t really remember much else about it except that, though.”

“You’re about the age to be going off to… finishing school, yes?” The Ambassador asks matter-of-factly.

Liz blushes, Varric and Myra laugh. Josephine tilts her head, “What did I say?”

“I am twenty, my Lady,” Liz says with a small grin, the flush fading from her face slowly. “I think it would be more likely for me to go to… university?”

Josephine tries to muffle her just-barely audible murmur of, “Maker…” before she clears her throat. “Yes, that would be correct. Had you gone, do you remember?”

Liz shook her head. “No, I don’t think I did.”

She sighs, rubbing her temples.

Varric shifts, noting the thundercloud that had moved in over Liz’s head. “Hey, you know, you’ve got that mysterious loner look going on.”

She turns to him incredulously and he nods sagely. “Oh yeah. You know what you’re doing, you’re in the middle of nowhere, now the savior we all look to... Tell that story in the tavern, you’ll have anyone you want listening. Adoring fans to hear your stories!”

Liz blushes, dipping her head. _Mission accomplished,_ he thinks, the bad weather thoughts clearing from her for even a few moments.

“I suppose... I am a bit of an enigma. Maybe,” they relent, shifting upward in their seat.

“You definitely are,” Myra chimes in from behind the Herald’s chair, leaning on the back of it.

A barely noticeable knock causes Liz to jump in her seat, cheeks coloring again. She mumbles an apology, embarrassed by the slight outburst.

Leliana slips through the door in the meantime, eyeing the guests in Josephine’s office. “You sent for me, Ambassador?”

Her colleague gestures her further in. “Liz has some ideas for us, she says.”

Their Spymaster turns to the Herald with a raised eyebrow, to which she receives a bright, flaming blush and ducked head.

“I just think, t-that there should be one central s-story. Where did I come from? Why was I here? People will notice I came from nowhere. My last name draws attention to us, attention we don’t want.”

Leliana’s eyes sharpen with a keen interest. “Go on...”

Myra opens her mouth to tell the Spymaster to back off as Liz stutters out under the increased pressure,

“... I... uhm...”

“Leliana, enough,” Josephine said sternly, her eyes firmly on the Herald, and not her colleague. “Where are you most familiar with, my lady?”

“I can pretend I’m from anywhere,” she replies quietly, eyes far away as they often are. “I am at home in the forests, in the grasslands, and the coasts. There is nowhere I haven’t at least been to briefly,” her fingers rap nervously against her thighs. “Oh! Except entire deserts.”

Leliana hums in acknowledgement, slowly walking through the room. “And your family background?”

Liz doesn’t hesitate. “Both parents are unable to work.”

“Your education?”

Josephine chimes in now, consideration in her voice. “She’s sufficiently taught, Leliana. I was thinking...”

“She can be one of yours,” the Spymaster interjects suddenly, holding her chin in thought.

Josephine clears her throat. “Excuse me?”

“An ambassadorial prodigy, perhaps? Coming with you to watch the proceedings. We can forge the documents, say she’s been with you for months, studying under you. What do you think?”

“They’ll read through that,” Liz replies, biting their lip. “I haven’t been seen with Ambassador Montilyet — since I have not been here — at any event preceding the Conclave. Even with forged documents, it’s not something we can risk. Not when they will be looking for any reason to tear us down.”

Varric watches the three quietly, brainstorming all the while.

“... S-spymaster L—or is it Sister Leliana? Sister Leliana, what about having traveled with you training to be a chantry sister informant?”

“You’re well informed for someone not from here,” Leliana replies, curiously and not maliciously.

Varric wraps a supportive arm around the back of Liz’s chair as she shrinks into it regardless. “Hey, let’s not get accusatory here...”

The Spymaster retreats slightly, noting how even slight observatory moves startle the young woman. “Not accusatory at all, Varric. Simply curious. One only wonders where our savior is from, no?”

“One does wonder,” said-savior mutters, no small amount of bitterness in their tone, carrying something far heavier and unidentifiable at this moment.

Leliana continues, “And anyway, it couldn’t be done. I had too many leaks preceding the Conclave, and there always is a threat of someone too loose with their tongue. I trust my people, but you never know if the walls have eyes and ears...”

Liz sighs, slumping in her seat with closed eyes. “And if those eyes and ears didn’t hear or see me, they can call us on it.”

Leliana simply makes an affirming noise, and then out of the corner of her eye glances back at Liz. “It was a viable option, just unfortunately a risk we cannot take.”

Liz’s demeanor brightened a little bit. “I just don’t know what else we can use for a story. I suppose... perhaps, I could have been... looking for work? Or perhaps already employed in Haven?”

“I’d offer to say I was bringing you with me, but I was escorting people from an Ostwick chantry,” Myra grimaces in memory, shifting in place. “If any of them have lived, they’d know you were not there with us, and that there is no conceivable reason for you to join my party.”

Liz groans, rubbing her eyes and resting her hand on her chin.

Josephine proposes a new idea. “Hm... how about being an apprentice for the Seeker?”

Myra huffs a laugh under her breath. “The Seeker? It could work, but asking her to do it…”

The Spymaster hums, rubbing her chin in thought. “Cassandra is unseen for long periods of time, as are the other Seekers, and she is — was, only seen publicly at Most Holy’s side, or when completing her will. And in those cases, it is easy to perhaps... bend the truth a little. The Seeker kept her apprentice from her missions for the sake of their content and the danger. You,” she looks to Liz, “the apprentice, stayed in a Seeker base while she was on these missions. Otherwise, you stayed out of sight.”

“This could work,” the Ambassador replies with a slight tapping of her quill, eager to get writing. “We simply have to ask the Seeker herself, of course, and decide where you’re initially from.”

“What does my accent sound like, to you guys?” Liz asks curiously, a hand on her chin.

Varric and Myra answer in tandem, “surfacer dwarf accent.”

Josephine nods in agreement. Liz hums. “So, say I am from some farm in the middle of nowhere, near a town in Ferelden that had many surface dwarves.”

Leliana and Josephine turn to look at Varric, the one surface dwarf in the room, who tilts his head at Liz. “That sounds believable,” he decides. “There’s an entrance to Orzammar here in the Frostbacks. It could work.”

Josephine stands and heads to the door again. “Let me fetch the Seeker, and we can make this official. Let it be one thing out of our hair.”

In silence they waited for word to reach the Seeker, and Liz pretended she didn’t see Leliana watching her every move and fidget, and Josephine carefully watched Leliana watch her. In the end, Cassandra showed up within a few minutes, and it was not an issue.

There were two rapt knocks, and the Seeker entered, instantly aware of the odd tension in the room and becoming wary. “You sent for me, Ambassador?”

“Please, Seeker, call me Josephine,” the Antivan woman smiled kindly. “And yes, we have something to ask of you.”

The Seeker glanced at the others and then nodded. “Very well. And the same to you, then; Call me Cassandra.”

“Cassandra, then,” Josephine replies, and then explains their plan to the Seeker.

Stoically, as she does most things, the warrior stood with her arms crossed and thought about what she had been told. “What will this require of me, besides my given word that the Herald has been at my side?”

“Nothing, I believe,” Leliana replied. “Though, it is beneficial that she is training with you regardless. Perhaps it would be good to increase that.”

Cassandra nods. “I accept. The fate of the Inquisition is at stake.”

“Thank you,” Liz says, very quietly, eyes cast downward. “Ah, Ambassador, now that that’s handled, what did you need me here for?”

Josephine makes an ‘O’ shape with her mouth, and then sits up straighter. “As our Herald, I believe it would be beneficial to sit with me and learn about diplomacy, trade, and some other important topics to help further the Inquisition.”

Liz shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

“There are many benefits to—what?”

The Herald nods like it’s the easiest thing, and not that they had anticipated having to convince her to sit and take lessons with Josephine. “You’re right. I need to know how to do this stuff correctly.”

The Ambassador blinks. _Surprisingly easy._

“A natural,” Varric grins jokingly, and Liz blinks blankly.

There is a quiet, awkward silence in the following seconds. “We’ll begin your lessons at mid-day, after lunch and before your afternoon sessions with Seeker Pentaghast.”

Liz shrugs. Works for her, everything is planned out. _Now I’m going to go take a nap._

“Can I go--“ they trip over their words, “Um, can I go take that elfroot to Healer Adan like I promised?”

Leliana looks at her curiously from across Josephine’s desk.

Liz bites the edge of her cuticle. _Well_ she reasons to herself, _I did plan on doing that after my nap. I’ll do it now, and then nap, and no one will have to know I’m napping all the time!_

She yawns behind her hand, blinking her suddenly — or perhaps it was there? — very heavy eyes at Josephine, waiting patiently.

“Of course!” Josephine insists, making forceful eye contact with Leliana, who doesn’t seem as willing to allow her to go and many questions behind her inquisitive gaze.

“I will take my leave as well, Ambassador. Come, Herald,” Josephine and Leliana’s watchful eyes take note of the way Liz physically reacts to the title, yet hunches her shoulders and walks through the door in front of the Seeker, Myra following close behind, unwilling to let the Herald be without her for very long.

Varric grins despite the situation, slyly and with his opportunist glee. “Maybe those rumors are onto something: perhaps she really is from another world.”

Leliana seems oddly contemplative while Josephine scoffs, now using one of her hands to rub her temple. “Please, don’t go about saying that outside this office. Regardless of the validity of the statement, it would spread.”

“I’ve got you covered, Ruffles,” Varric soothes with an easy smile, pushing his chair in as he stands. “If you don’t need me, I’ll be out of your hair too.”

“Goodnight, Master Tethras.”

“Just call me Varric!” He calls over his shoulder as he leaves, grinning.

The silence he leaves is deafening. Josephine can only see the tiredness in the Herald’s eyes, the fear in her stutter, the shakiness of her hands. 

Josephine places her forehead in her palm tiredly once he’s left, and Leliana rubs her shoulder in quiet support.

 _Why must someone so young be placed in this position? Why must we be asked to do the things we are? Only twenty._ Her thoughts are with her own sister, Yvette. She would not survive something like this—that makes her heart clench in pain. _But Yvette has, perhaps, lived a far different life than the Herald,_ she tries to reason with herself, but the pit in her stomach does not fade.

“Cheer up, Josie,” her friend says quietly. “This could be far, far worse.”

“And yet, it could be better,” Josephine replies, rubbing her eyes, moisture having collected in the corners.

“You are deep in thought,” Leliana tries after several minutes of tense silence, coaxing her friend to speak to her.

“As silly as it sounds... I just wonder how far from home she is,,” Josephine murmurs, as if she’s afraid to say it. “Do you think anyone is looking for her, Leliana?”

Leliana doesn’t tell her that none of her agents can find a trace of family, of anything or anyone related to or anything implying young woman even exists. The words she chose to reassure her — hollow and fake — close in her throat and she swallows them.

“I don’t know, Josie,” she says instead, wrapping her arms around her shoulders gently. “But you needn’t worry about it—“

“Someone needs to,” her friend mutters, but Leliana continues as if she hadn’t spoken, “We need her to close the Breach,” the Spymaster reasons softly, rubbing in comforting circles,“Even if anyone is looking for her... The fate of Thedas must come first.”

“I know, Leliana, I know,” the Ambassador replies, sounding just a tad bit bitter. “I only think… Why must the Maker ask this of us? Why does he ask someone so young to bear this burden for Him? If she really is Andraste’s Herald, then…”

Leliana looks to the side. “If she is really Andraste’s Herald, then we are more alone than I thought -- sending a lost messenger in the wake of such destruction…”

“Leliana!” her friend gasps, scandalized.

The Spymaster sighs. She had been deeply grappling with her faith since this had happened. _Andraste’s Herald or a coincidence? Divine Providence or have we been abandoned once again?_

“Sorry to blaspheme, Josie,” she forces out, thinking about the price of being Andraste’s Herald sitting in the young woman’s hand, rotting away at her flesh, and wonders as she has many times the past couple of weeks if this is worth the price of devotion and worship. “I know you don’t like it.”

Josephine relaxed slightly, posture still pensive. “No, I understand. I know you have struggled, since…” she doesn’t dare say it, not yet. No one really has. “I do not know if she truly is touched, Leliana. But I do know that if she _is…_ then I daresay we are not alone in the slightest. I do not presume to know why the Maker or his Bride do anything,” she says with confidence, eyes bright and shining with hope, “but if it is indeed His will, then perhaps it is a test. Maybe _she_ is the lesson. In this case, all we have is time.”

“Time,” the Spymaster murmurs, forlorn. “I have given the Maker nothing but time. But I suspect you are right.”

“Of course I am,” the Ambassador smiles softly. “Haven't I been telling you all this time that I'm always right?”

Leliana laughed lightly. "Maker, Josie. You're impossible."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Liz in the Fade, training with Cassandra and Myra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please enjoy ,, merry christmas eve if you celebrate secularly or religiously, if you dont celebrate i hope you have a good day (: if any of my readers are Jewish, I know Hanukkah ended already, but I hope your week was wonderful and that even in these times you were able to celebrate.

**[9:42 Dragon, Waking Liz Up]**

Wind blows around her in her dreamscape, her confusion physically palpable here as she becomes more overwhelmed. The notes are soft and hang in her consciousness, echoing. It’s a cacophony of sounds that grate harshly on her mind, despite the gentleness of the strumming and the steadiness of the beat, too confused by the whistling wind and cold sensation of snow.

Except for the slight strumming, a low consistent beat tapping like a heart thrumming against the chest wall, and the whistling of wind and snow, there is no sound. And then in the complete, echoing silence, a voice rings out in the dark, singing not-quite tonelessly, but still unnervingly.

_Oh, I miss you most at six-feet apart,_

_When you’re right outside my window but can’t ride inside my car._

The rushes of smells, sounds and touch come faster now, so fast that the stimulus makes her nauseous even in this strangely vivid dream, triggering her overstimulation so fast she wants to hit the eject button. The song continues in that not-quite toneless way, bouncing off of the mirrors and the dark floor, ringing through her ears.

_Space and time are interwoven_

_Well at least that's what we're told_

_When I was young I was suspicious but it's true_

_Time sticks like glue_

_I feel so blue_

_Here missing you._

In front of them they see a worn trail and hear a quick shake of metal-- a collar, their dog!-- but there isn’t much time to think before it starts up again.

_So I think I'll build a time machine and go back to a time_

_When we didn't need to measure six feet on the ground_

_When I came around_

_That's not allowed_

_I can't go back now._

Flashes of memory rush so quickly in front of them that they feel pain in the front of their skull, twisting away from it with a groan. _The oxygen reading is low._ In front of them, disembodied, they watch as two people speak in low voices about how one of them needs to get hospital treatment despite the risk. It phases away to a blurry and scratched out image, the sound of a creaky door opening following the realization that this was a memory of when their mother was hospitalized for her terminal illness and was exposed to...

 _The virus?_ She finally realizes with a stark feeling of fear. _What if I’m carrying it?_

Heedless of her internal worries, the song starts up again, just as eerie as before, and intent to make it to its end.

_So far, so far but so close_

_Like a star, out in the cosmos_

_Can't touch the beauty I see..._

The snow begins to rush around them in flurries, drowning out the acoustic guitar softly playing and the haunting lyrics that send pangs of pain into their chest. Soft footsteps cause them to jump at the sight of Solas, and hastily wipe their red eyes with a sniffle.

“Solas?” They ask, voice thick. “This is a dream. Why are you here?”

He’s eying her with something akin to curiosity and a bit of suspicion. “I felt a… disturbance in the Fade, and came to investigate. I was unaware you could enter the Fade.”

They blink, the structure of the scene wavering just slightly. “I’m in the Fade?”

“You were unaware?” Solas asks, intrigued, and she shrugs, twisting her hands together.

His hands are comfortably behind his back as he examines the cold, frigid space she’s in, small and enclosed, and almost entirely dark except for where they are, lit by bright light. There are mirrors all around them, and the floor is made of obsidian, but Solas seems to get distracted by inspecting the unfamiliar material.

“I--I guess? I--”

 _Mom’s terminal illness. The virus._ A sob makes its way up their throat and they clasp a hand over their mouth to stifle it. When they’ve forced it back, they look up at Solas, on the verge of leaving.

“Solas, you…”

The elf waits patiently, eyebrows furrowed slightly. She looks up, straight into his grey eyes, her own pleading. “Solas, I know when someone else knows mourning. Does it ever end?” She asks hopelessly, her heart shattering over and over again, the ache magnifying.

There is a stricken look that crosses his face before he sighs and crosses the short distance to kneel in front of her, placing his hands in his lap. “No, da’lan,” he murmurs almost regretfully, looking down at the floor. “You just find somewhere to carry it.”

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_

Liz startles out of the Fade and into consciousness, tears in the corner of her eyes and rolling right out of her bed onto the floor.

"Ow..."

“Herald! It is time to wake up.”

When crashing is the answer Cassandra receives in response that morning and she nearly begs the Maker for patience, breathing in and out deeply for several moments to center herself.

“Herald?”

“ _Mmfh_?” Liz jerks away from the noise, disoriented, expecting to hear Solas’ voice and instead getting the eerily calm and steady morning of Haven.

“Herald, I’m coming in— oh, for Makers—“

With more patience than she normally has, she crosses the room to kneel by her and nudge her shoulder with one finger, her mouth set firmly in a line of displeasure.

“Your Worship?”

Liz cracks open one eye, their gaze narrowing in on Cassandra slowly. “What… what are you doing in my cabin?”

The Seeker sighs. “Did you sleep last night, Your Worship?”

Whining, they turn away from her. “Don’t… call me that,” they groan into the floor, and then shiver when bare skin touches the cold wood. “Floor?”

Another deep sigh. _I deserve more time to read for this._ “Yes, you are on the floor.”

“N-nightmare,” the young woman replies with her trademark stutter, finally more awake and trying to push herself up, and now Cassandra notices the way the blanket clings to her from where she tangled in it, the way her hair is sweaty and stuck to her head, the tears clinging to her cheeks where she had not had a chance to wipe them off.

Liz sits up and shakes her head, dizzy, and nearly falls over for it. “Steady now,” Cassandra says, uncharacteristically gentle. 

Liz snorts, but then she shakes off the Seeker’s hand gently. “Lemme get ready and I’ll be out in a mo’,” she mutters, standing with difficulty and again baffling the Seeker with her strange way of speaking.

“... Alright,” she concedes hesitantly. “If you need anything—“

“Yes, yes, I know,” she replies, already flinging off her clothes with her back to the Seeker.

Cassandra exits and decides to watch the sunrise in quiet contemplation while she waits, comfortably leaning up against the cabin wall, appreciating the way it bleeds warm golden rays into the snowy landscape of Haven. It blends with an embrium red and orange palette you’d only find in Antiva or Orlais, reflecting off of the snow-capped trees and mountains -- a painting both beautiful and lively.

“All done,” Liz’s voice snaps the Seeker out of her reverie in the calmness of the morning light.

“Indeed?” Cassandra hadn’t even heard the door open, she turned to look at the Herald; fully dressed in the light leather armor they had instructed her to use and the same used gloves that she had picked up days previous.

“You were pretty in your thoughts,” Liz shrugs, leaning against the cabin with a book from their bag. They look up at the slow sun rise now. “The sun rise is so much more vivid here, you know?”

The Seeker prepared to reply that she doesn’t, in fact, know that, but Liz says almost absentmindedly,

“Well, I suppose you don’t.” They snap the book closed and return it to the cabin before stepping out and sighing with a long stretch, several parts of their body cracking. “Alright, let’s get my ass kicked.”

Cassandra snorts. “You sound as if you’ve given up before we’ve gotten there.”

Liz gazes at her wryly. “No, I’m just realistic. You’re like, twice my size and my age with one-hundred percent more experience than me.”

Cassandra has nothing to say to that, but a small, tiny smile does appear at the edge of her lips as they walk to the training field in the first comfortable silence they’ve shared since Liz appeared in the wreckage.

“You’re going to want to place your body like this against a warrior...”

And so the day began, and promptly turned to shit.

* * *

**[Post-Inquisition, Secret Base, 9:43]**

“Well, actually,” she takes a deep breath, steepling her hands over her mouth and adopting a look of consideration. “That’s kind of a lie,” her tone turns wry, “it didn’t _promptly_ turn to shit. It, very gradually, as most things do for me -- as though my life is one elaborate prank inside of a social experiment to see how much I can take before I go absolutely off the rails -- went to shit, and somehow that’s worse than if it had gone to shit immediately.”

The one across from her is on the edge of their seat, the features she can see crinkled in anticipation. “But what happened?”

There’s a quiet murmur of, “ _What's a social experiment?”_ That gets overshadowed by other comments and questions, all over each other in the suspense that she created.

“So, some background information,” they start, open palm going into the air next to their head uselessly before closing into a fist and falling into their lap, “I, uh. I kind of have a few untreatable illnesses? And… hard training and those illnesses didn’t really… mix well.”

“You told the Seeker, though, right?”

Liz opens her mouth and closes it, raises a finger to counter the question with a justification, and then drops her arm with a shrug. 

“No,” she says to confused gazes. “I was afraid. I was traumatized, I was in a foreign place. I didn’t trust her -- or anyone -- with that information about myself. They could’ve used it against me. It… in hindsight, caused a lot of problems that I had the ability to solve.”

“You’re the arbiter of your own demise, huh?” One of them jokes humorously, but she just guffaws and laughs loudly.

“If only you fucking knew,” Liz snorts. “To quote an author I loved, from _my_ world, ‘Your worst sin is that you’ve destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.’

There’s a slight widening of eyes around her; only some, not many. There are many intent stares.

“So let’s set the scene...”

* * *

**[Haven, 9:42 Dragon, Cassandra is a shit teacher]**

Cassandra thought Liz was doing rather well compared to the day before. It was an incredible display of control of her muscles, considering she had such little coordination — she suspected she had some sort of background in it, to be able to, albeit sloppily — and her emotions. Her frustration with herself when she failed was evident; after the first ten _sorrys_ Cassandra told her she could no longer apologize, and she swallowed them instead.

Myra tried to step in as often as possible to keep the warrior’s temper from hitting the Herald, deflecting and absorbing the worst parts as best as she could. It was clear that Liz’s temper was rising every time that the Seeker criticized something she did, and it was not improving with each of her own improvements. 

Liz tried, tried, _tried_ to follow her instructions to the letter, but her body did not always cooperate, landing her in the snow with radiating pain more often than not.

 _This_ was one of those times.

“Son of a--”

“Watch your mouth,” the Seeker said calmly, knocking her feet out from under her. She sat up and huffed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she muttered what she wanted to say since the first time the Right Hand had said that, and grabbed her sword again. 

“I’m--it is not becoming of the Herald of Andraste to use such language,” Cassandra replied this time, eying her stance and nodding.

They cross swords again, Liz watching vigilantly for sudden moves. Her hip hurts so much, she really just wants to rest it. “That is not your concern,” she grunts as she tries to land a hit on the Seeker’s thigh.

Myra watches from the sidelines, nearly biting off her nails to get through the tension, eyes darting between the two of them rapidly. 

“Of course it is my concern,” Cassandra finally says, taking Liz by surprise and landing a hit on her upper arm.

“Maybe that’s enough for today, Seeker?” Myra calls out hopefully, intending to head this off before a true argument starts, noticing that there seems to be something bubbling up inside of Liz, a barely-concealed rage that is frothing and seething.

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust, but after a moment of consideration she nods. Liz is staring stonily at the ground.

“It is not your concern,” they finally say, looking like they’ve ground their jaw into dust. Their eyes are hard, looking up to Cassandra’s now, a slight tremor in their voice almost missed because of the whistling of the wind. “I might be your appointed Herald, but I did not agree to spread the word of your Prophetess. I am not her Herald. I am a mouthpiece. I am _this,”_ she flings her left gloved hand out in irritation. “I can swear, and will, as much or as little as I want and _you_ will not deny me one of the only parts of my autonomy that I still own. The Inquisition owns the rest of me now, right?”

Cassandra gapes and Myra strides forward, but Liz shrugs her off and storms from the training field, smoke practically pouring out of her ears. Her gait is stilted all the same, stiff and unnatural, likely from taking so many hits from the Seeker.

“You uh…” Myra rubs the back of her neck awkwardly, hovering near the stunned warrior. “You okay there?”

The trance that the Herald had left her in breaks and she blinks. “Yes, I-- Yes. I had not considered... I think that the Herald may be unhappy here.”

Myra laughs, loud and involuntary, before stopping herself. “You couldn’t tell before?”

The Seeker seems uncomfortable, gesturing vaguely. “I am not well versed in…”

“People?” Treveylan suggests, and then shrugs. “Is _anyone_ happy here, Seeker? We have all lost much. Her, perhaps, most of all. We should take time to get to know her, you know.”

“... Perhaps,” Cassandra replies eventually, clearly in deep thought, and Myra leaves the Seeker to stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quote from one of my favorite poets: Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment  
> song at the beginning: 6 feet apart - Alec Benjamin


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mingling, memories, and coming to terms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy almost new years since im not uploading tmrw! enjoy :’)

“Solas?”

“Hm?” He looks up from his notes to observe the young woman shyly standing front of him, something tied around the lower half of her face.

“Can you tell me stories about the Fade?”

His ears shift in interest, and he places his notes aside for a moment, gesturing for her to take a seat across from him. “What would you like to know?”

Liz’s tiny pointed ear nervously twitches, openly seen while her hair is tied up, a habit Solas has noticed. “Anything? Everything. The Fade seems really cool. And nothing like what I know about spirits and magic.”

Solas’ eyebrows furrow in interest, and Liz clarifies. “Ah, right, sorry. The theory of magic I seem to be familiar with is a lot different to Thedas magic, same with spirit work. I want to learn about the magic of this world.”

“You are not from this world?”

Their hesitance is clear, and they nod eventually, ears flicking again, and he watches when their eyebrows furrow and unfurrow just as quickly in response to it.

_Many responses at once that you could miss._

They finally decide on, “At the very least, I’m not from Thedas.”

He nods, knowing she likely knows as much as he does and pushing will get no more of a more concise answer. “And you studied magic and spirit work in your world?”

“Several types, yes.”

“One last question,” he says, and then fixes his gaze on the fabric tied across the lower half of her face. “What purpose does that serve? You do not have to share if it is personal, I merely find myself curious.”

Liz shrinks a little bit. “Remember that dream in the Fade you found me in? Those were my memories. So I found a suitable material and tied this around my face. I’ll just… wear it for a couple days or so.”

Finally satisfied with his line of questioning, he settles back, gets comfortable and changes the topic. “What would you ask of me?”

Liz’s eyes lit up and they leaned forward on their elbows on the table, finally invested in something for the first time since they’ve woken up. “Well, for starters, like, how does spirit matter _work_ here? And the law of...”

* * *

Josephine stares at the solid wood. She should not feel this apprehensive about changing the plan, but the Herald has proven finicky in the face of last minute changes. Colicky, more like. With a deep breath, she places her hand to the wood, just as she hears a _cre-eeeeak._

Slowly, the Ambassador looks up, and blinks owlishly at the young woman staring back at her from the roof, frozen shamefaced in place.

Neither of them speak, Liz’s face drained from being seen on top of her roof, and Josephine frankly so shocked she’s lost for words.

Liz clears her throat and squeaks, “I— hello. Did I miss our—“

“No, I’m early, actually. I just came to retrieve you myself,” Josephine replies, trying not to let her overbearing instinct shine through. “Do you think you could come down from there?”

The Herald bites her lip, looking eyes darting around the ground. Josephine knows that look; that look says _Well, you see Josie, I hadn’t really thought about it yet, I got up here and planned on figuring it out later,_ in her sister’s voice. Years of helping with her siblings prepared her for this, strangely enough, though as Ambassador to a newly revived Inquisition she never expected to be utilizing those skills.

Then, with confidence the Ambassador certainly doesn’t feel herself, Liz grins. “Not entirely, but I can probably figure it out.”

Before she can protest, the Herald is getting into position, tongue darting out to the corner of her mouth in concentration, and then she leaps off the roof, and misses the landing. Josephine thinks she gasps first from the unexpectedness of it — someone with the title of Herald should probably be more graceful — and then laughs. Hard, free laughter escapes her as the Herald lifts her head with a weak smile under the cloth on her face.

“I’m all good…”

“I am…” the diplomat fought to control her giggles. “I am so sorry, my lady. Please, forgive me. Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

With barely a wince, Liz stood and shook herself off like a dog. “Brr. No, I’m okay. Thank you though! Told you I could get down.”

“That you did,” she agrees, still eyeing her for injury. “Shall we get going?”

“Sure,” they nod, but backtrack to the cabin. “Let me just change into some not-wet pants, since I just landed in the snow.”

A couple minutes later Liz has a new pair of pants on and they’re walking at a comfortable pace towards the Chantry where Josephine’s office is. The Ambassador can barely make out a quiet tune she’s humming.

“Do you like music, Your Worship?”

Liz stops immediately, blushing under the sheet of cloth tied around their face. “N-no, not overly much…”

The diplomat feels her lips curl up in a slight smile. “Then what was that I heard?”

“I— p-passing the time?”

“Indeed,” she replies with kindness in her voice. “You know, my mother and I used to sing together. Oh, I carried those songs with me to and from the Antivan market place. The songs they sing in the Antivan ports...”

As they walk, Josephine can tell that Liz is not quite focused. She also, for a second time, takes notice of the cloth she tied across her face, and, taking it to possibly be some sort of religious act, decides not to ask about it out of politeness.

Liz perks up curiously, taking her from that line of thought. “What kind of songs?”

Josephine’s dark brown eyes sparkle. “Lively ones. Work songs to pass the time, songs about love, songs about the sun...”

“It sounds lovely...”

“It’s very lovely,” the Antivan woman replies fondly. “I hope I can go back home after this is all over. I long to see the ports. There is nothing like the ocean.”

“I hope you can go home, too,” Liz replies quietly, her expression far away.

Josephine’s expression falls suddenly. “My lady, I—“

Though hard to tell, Liz’s voice conveys the easy, though weak, smile they wear. “You meant no harm. Everyone misses their families. Don’t stress about it.”

Liz’s humming returns, and so does Josephine’s curiosity. It’s not a tune she’s familiar with. “May I ask, what is the tune you are humming?”

The Herald chuckles humorlessly and recites a second song that had returned to her memory earlier, _“'My love she says she misses the twinkle of my eyes, But Rhona stalks the streets and to meet would be unwise, Hide away, hide away, we hear the desperate cries, Hide away, hide away, or see the bodies rise.'”_

The Ambassador feels a chill run through her at the reciting, a musical lilt to it as Liz delivered them.“That is...”

“Incredibly morbid?” She suggests wryly, and then shrugs, her face tired. “yeah. Even in the dark times, there will be songs.”

Josephine remembers, briefly, Leliana’s stories about the Blight and how she wrote a Ballad about the Heroes.

“I suppose you are correct.”

“People cope differently, I guess.” Liz looks away, briefly.

The Ambassador studies the young woman for several moments, noticing not for the first time how tired her eyes look. “Do you need more time to sleep, my lady?”

Liz shrugs it off. “Thank you, but no, I do not.”

But the ambassador insists, “If you need more time to sleep, you only have to let someone know.”

“Thank you. But we are at your office, so we should probably...”

* * *

**[Haven, 9:42, Myra, details ambiguously stolen from a journal]**

“You wanted to speak with me as well, Ambassador?” Myra sticks her head into the Ambassador’s office once the Herald has left after an hour or so. 

For having to dress further down than a noble woman might be used to, Myra takes to it very well. It’s charming, with her hands deep in her pockets comfortably.

“Ah, yes,” Josephine nods, gesturing to a seat in front of her desk. Myra spins the chair around and sits like that; her arms rested on the back of it. “To be frank — it is your parents, Myra.”

Myra blinks, losing focus for a moment and trying to orient enough to ground and anchor herself. She thinks she hears Josephine’s voice and shakes her head, turning to see a furrowed brow.

“I’m sorry, Ambassador,” the noble apologizes, “I got distracted. Continue, please. My parents…?”

Josephine hesitates to continue, but as she speaks she leans forward to shuffle through some letters on her desk. “Your parents believe we have kept you here against your will and are threatening action against us, if we do not release you. They are requesting your brother, as well, whom we do not have. I need you to write them, let them know you are alive and staying of your own volition.”

The Trevelyan scoffed, placing her head in her palm. “Even with a letter in my own hand saying I’m here of my own volition… you don’t know my parents,” she mutters, looking away. “But I can try. Not like they listened to me much anyway.”

The Ambassador came over and gently placed a hand on Myra’s arm. “Thank you very much, my lady. It’s very kind of you to do this for the Inquisition.”

Myra blushes hotly and clears her throat, looking up at Josephine. “It—It’s nothing, really. You’re too kind.”

“Would you like to stay for some refreshments, my lady?” Josephine asks, moving near her pot of tea.

Myra smiles. “I’d love that. Is there anything I can do to help prepare?”

Josephine purses her lips at the idea of a guest helping, but Myra seems very eager. She sighs and passes her the bread. “Slice this, and then the cheese.”

They worked in companionable silence and drank tea, ate bread and cheese and talked about nothing. A small respite.

* * *

**[Haven 9:42, Liz]**

After her lessons with Josephine, Liz gets to wander just a bit before her training with Cassandra. 

This mostly means observing people quietly until she becomes bored and moves on.

Eventually she finds herself looking out across the frozen lake, eyes heavy with the weight of everything, and she suddenly changes her gaze to stare at the wretched thing on her hand.

 _Why me?_ The million dollar — coin, now — question that no one seems to be able to answer. Her undercut needs to be shaved, it's too long and scratchy, and she winces uncomfortably when she uses her marked hand to adjust her hair. Her hand aches most of the time, but sometimes it’s just... numb. It’s a mystery she doesn’t understand, but desperately wants to.

She shivers. It must’ve gotten colder out. There’s frost on the dock she’s sitting on, her breath condensing. _Might as well go back._

A bright green plant, healthy and full of chlorophyll, takes their attention as they walk back, and they kneel down to inspect it. _Elfroot._ They gently pick off a leaf and chew it. _Slight tongue-numbing effect. Write that down for later,_ they note. 

“Thank you, elfroot.”

She ends up kneeling in front of the elfroot for quite a bit, one hand on the ground in front of it, breathing deeply in and out with the heartbeat of the earth beneath her. This may not be the ground she remembers but it still thrives with life just like the ground she’s used to, and for a few moments she’s able to find some peace, wishing for something she cannot even name but knowing this is the closest she’ll get.

“Herald!”

“Times up,” they murmur to the plant, peeling open their eyes and wincing at the sunlight. “I suppose you’ll be here later, little one...”

“Herald, who are you—“

Cassandra turns the corner, fully expecting to see at the very least that the Herald had acquired some sort of stray, and not in the least to see them gently speaking to a common elfroot plant, one of many in the area.

“A plant?” The Seeker asks weakly.

Liz hums, a little bit of a smile on the edge of her lips. “Plants are very smart, you know.”

“You are... strange.”

That earns her a humorless snort. “Heard that one before.”

Cassandra holds out her hand to help Liz stand, and she eyes it contemplatively.

Liz smiles in a friendly manner and shakes off Cassandra’s offered hand, standing with nary a sound — though she does clench her fists — and together they make their way back into the town. Liz returns to her cabin to change and Cassandra, joined by Myra, wait for her at the training field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song quoted about coronavirus from Alice Dillon called 'Hide Away', seriously, check it out. Hauntingly beautiful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> adjusting albeit poorly means you become an herbalist right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >< comments n kudos are really appreciated, i hope everyone is doing well

Their tongue dips out of the side of their mouth, concentration solely focused on the concoction they’ve spent a good amount of hours experimenting with, when they aren’t training with Cassandra and Myra, in a meeting, studying with Josephine, or spending time talking with any combination of Solas, Varric and Myra, occasionally joined by others.

It had been slow going, still not quite sure what the properties are similar to and trying to compare as best as possible without anything to go on aside from a book that’s for a world… a whole space and time away, so there hadn’t been many attempts. Liz didn’t make many ‘attempts’, preferring to spend more time contemplating the absolute possibilities to ensure success on as few tries as possible.

Right now, the formula had a piece she had been trying to match to one in her book. She hadn’t been able to quite get it yet, but this time she used a little bit of the plant called ‘embrium’ instead of the ‘spindleweed’ that Adan had her try first (it wasn’t Adan’s fault, she hadn’t told him what she was trying to do because she wanted to figure it out herself). This batch seems to be doing much better, and she watches every second as it sets.

“Do you have a moment?”

Liz jumped, almost dropping the topical salve. The Commander’s gauntleted hand shot out to catch it and steady their hand, and they very quietly thanked him. 

They hadn’t even heard him come in. He stands tall in the shadow of Adan’s workshop and for a moment they see a much darker shadow, warping into something entirely different, before becoming him again.

She nodded once, completing it in two jerky motions and taking her salve with a _thank you_ under her breath before placing it on the table. She quietly cleans up a little before finally turning to him, still looking to the left of his eyes or his forehead or cheek. 

The Council (and Myra, who had vehemently refused to be _apart_ of the Council officially, and Cassandra had opposed to such an appointment regardless) had spoken, briefly, over breakfast about her difficulty with eye contact, but as Leliana had pointed out, she tries to use it when it counts, so they don’t see a reason to talk to her about it.

“Yes, Commander?”

Instead of answering, he leans forward with simple curiosity. She shifts under his interest, almost like it’s a weight to have someone interested in what she’s doing, and picks up the salve to show him.

“This?” He nods, unsure of what she’s thinking, unable to see her expression because of the facial covering she wears. “Experimental elfroot and embrium salve recipe to see if the properties are the same as a similar salve from my home.”

The Commander makes a noise of interest, quirking his eyebrow. “You’re very interested in plants and their applications.”

Liz’s lips turn up just slightly in a smile, though the Commander can’t see it. “I wish to heal those around me, so yes. And now it’s a matter of learning entirely new plants.”

Cullen nods slowly, looking her work over. He decides to finally bring up what he came here for. “The Council wants to meet regarding departing from Haven, and requests your presence.”

“Oh, why didn’t you just say that?” Liz frowned, taking off their apron and hanging it up, then swiping their hands by each other over the table, beginning their clean up that had become a part of their routine after afternoon training. “I would’ve gotten cleaned up earlier.”

He tilted his head while they walked around cleaning, and then it struck Cullen. “I wasn’t inquiring about your practice to distract you, my lady. I apologize if it appeared that way.”

There’s a quick knock on the door before it opens. “Liz, the meeting is soon, we--ah, hello, Commander,” Myra greets stiffly, still unused to the man. 

She wasn’t used to finding him in here, and she shuts the door tentatively, leaning up against the wall.

“Hi, Myra,” Liz greets calmly, turning back to Cullen. She had paused, books in hand, blush now fading. She places them onto the table neatly in the back right corner. “I apologize for assuming, Commander.”

“Not a worry,” the Commander waves the apology off, turning so he faces both of them. “I can escort you both to the Council?”

Liz hummed in reply, continuing her clean up and mental catalogue of things to ensure she didn’t forget anything. The pair of decent glass goggles to prevent fumes from getting in her eyes sits on top of her head and she seems to remember, unbuckling the strap and placing it on its hook. The cloth stays in place, though she does take it off briefly to fully wipe off some dirt and a tiny bit of moisture before returning it.

“Is this something you did often?”

“Is what something I did often?”

“The herbal remedies. Plants,” Cullen elaborates, one hand gesturing to the hoard of supplies Liz is currently tidying.

They tilt their head absently. “Often? No. Studied? Yes. I live and die for research. If I have the knowledge to protect people, I can utilize it. Of course, I never got the opportunity to, but that doesn’t mean I can’t now, does it?”

Once she’s finally done, she turns to him with a stringy bit of elfroot stuck to her eyelid. He points to his own eye, saying, “you have something, um...”

“I do?” They fumble around, pulling until the stringy piece comes off, and puts it in the sack of scrap that they’re compiling for compost. “Thank you. Shall we?”

Cullen opens the door for her and gives a slight bow, smiling gently at the wide smile he receives in return, holding it for Myra as well, who seems considerably less impressed by the Commanders antics than the Herald, but still thankful. 

“We shall.”

Liz and Myra wait politely for Cullen to shut the door behind them and then they start off towards the chantry at a decently slow pace.

“Have you always had the injury?” Cullen asks Liz, who stumbles and stutters. 

A part of him suddenly regrets asking her.

“What?”

Cullen stopped and turned to look her way. Her hands now went in different directions, one to fiddle with her coat — she calls the fabric _‘denim’_ — and one to her hair, nervously tugging at the tail she tied her hair into.

He decides to be frank, for both their sakes. Blunt force had to work _sometimes,_ right? 

“The limp, my lady. Were you born with it?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she replies, averting her eyes. 

Myra looks sympathetic.

“My lady, do you take me for a fool?” Cullen asks, not unkindly, with a smile still on his face.

“No, of course not-!”

“If you are... ashamed, I assure you, there is no need,” he says, coming to kneel in front of the young woman. “I have met many a-soldier both born with or injured in the field, and both are just as honorable as the other.”

Liz’s skin is red right to her ears. “I... thank you, Commander... it’s... difficult to talk about... it’s an injury, yeah.”

Cullen can sense there’s more to it but it’s clear she doesn’t want to elaborate, and he simply smiles. “I understand, my lady. If you need anything, you need only ask.”

He stands and goes to continue towards their destination, but a hesitant voice calling out to him stops his motion.

“.... Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Can we be discreet about my... injury?”

Something in his gut twists, but he just nods. This is none of his business.

“Of course, my lady. If that is what you wish.”

“Thank you,” she replies in a rush, relieved, and goes to catch up with him and Myra.

As they approach the War Room door, the sound of fierce arguing becomes apparent. Liz’s face twists into a frown under the cloth, becoming distracted and withdrawn. As a result, when Cullen turns to ask her a question, she bumps into him, causing her to turn to Myra out of habit, who places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Liz’s face turns bright red again, the color disappearing below the fabric covering half her face. She ducks her head nervously. “I’m s-sorry, C-Commander,” she stutters, muffled even worse now, hands trembling a bit.

“It is no trouble,” he replies, his face softening. He’s reminded of his younger sisters, how fearful they could be, and made sure to be conscious of that.

Myra moved closer to the young woman. Liz, seeming to weigh something in her head, wrapped her arms around one of the warriors tightly, clinging to her side. Myra gently tugs her arm free and wraps it around her shoulder instead, realizing she needs the support.

Once they opened the door, it was clear that Josephine had been listening to Leliana and Cassandra argue for a long time.

“We cannot send her out there—“

“And what do you want to do instead? Let the chaos simmer?”

“That is not what I said at all, and if you’d _listen_ —“

Josephine looks up from her tablet and almost visibly sighs in relief. “Ah! Commander, Herald, you’re here...”

“This isn’t done,” Cassandra insists, her hands curled around the edge of the table.

“Ah, but could we not let it rest? Cullen asks warmly, immune to her ire. “We all require a break sometimes. Even you.”

“Perhaps _you_ do,” the Seeker grumbles about _there are things that must be done,_ but they’re half-hearted and turn into silence.

Leliana purses her lips and picks up where she left off heedless of Cullen’s clear attempt to placate Cassandra.

“As I was saying before you arrived, we cannot send her out without the proper training. However, if we send out groups of soldiers, build watchtowers, set up agents—“

“Which would require someone there to oversee,” Cassandra points out, frustration evident in her tone. “She is ready enough. We will protect her. We must get to the people and _do_ something.”

“... Um… Is anyone going to ask... what _I_ think?”

“No,” Cassandra replies dismissively, not even looking down to Liz.

Liz looked down, realizing her place here. _Evocative image. Right._ While this interaction immediately triggers the self-deprecating thoughts that she’s realized are something she’ll be familiar with for a while, someone addresses her again.

“What _do_ you think, my lady?” Cullen asks with purpose, looking down at the young woman clinging to Myra.

Liz shuffles slightly, digging the toe of her boot into the floor. “I need to get out there. They need to see that we aren’t a threat. Cassandra is right; they’ll protect me, and I can stay out of the way mostly. I know enough, and we can keep training. The best way to learn is experience. But the world can’t keep waiting for me. It’s been two weeks… and things are only going to get worse.”

Cassandra seems rather pleased with the turn of events, and Leliana contemplative. Eventually, the Spymaster ceases her endless pacing and sighs. “Of course, you are correct that they need to see the Inquisition isn’t a threat. But your safety is tantamount, Herald—“

“Please. Don’t. _Callmethat_.” Liz says so softly that they have to strain to hear her, eyes fixed on the map. “And the mark needs to be protected, yeah. I won’t put it in jeopardy. But we have to do something.”

Leliana sighs again, but her look is calculating beneath her hood. “I don’t like gambling with pieces that I don’t know.”

Josephine laughs lightly, though clearly strained. “ _Gambling,_ Leliana?”

Liz is hit with a wave of deja vu, _didn’t you ever like a gamble?_ In Leliana’s voice, but _wrong,_ gritty and grating and hoarse--

When she opens her eyes, she comes to the realization that she missed most of the conversation trying to center herself. They’ve already moved on to logistics, boring things that Liz lends half an ear to because she wants to stay informed, but otherwise studies the map.

“How many soldiers will go with you, Cassandra?” Cullen asks eventually, stroking his chin in thought.

“Enough to man the camps, nothing more,” Leliana cuts in, with a light hum of agreement from Josephine.

“We can’t be seen as a threat. We are a peacekeeping force—“

Liz snorts. _Peacekeepers…_ her mind flashes imperialism and righteous fury through her and she almost gnashes her teeth.

“Is something amusing?” Cassandra snaps, already fed up from the rest of the meeting.

Liz’s gaze becomes more stoic, staring aimlessly across the map. They pull the fabric away from their mouth so they can speak clearly. “Peacekeeping forces always outlive their power. I will not allow us to do the same. Look at what the original inquisition did: it split into the Seekers and the Templars. And we all saw the destruction wrought.”

Cassandra’s face goes red, but she ducks her head in begrudging agreement, though it sounds like she swears something in Nevarran under her breath. 

Liz settles back, though still uneasy, against Myra, clinging to her arm tiredly. Smudges of dirt and chlorophyll streak across their forehead faintly. 

“You know Varric and Solas need to come with us, right?” Liz comments, not bothering to look up at Cassandra’s predictable reaction.

Cassandra looks like a vein is about to burst. “Absolutely n—“

“They can prove useful helping to protect the Herald,” Josephine interjects thoughtfully, “and give the Inquisition a...”

“Softer look?” The Herald suggests, eyebrow arched.

“... I was going to say a more _unified_ look, beneficial to gaining recruits, but... _softer_... is apt, I suppose,” the Ambassador replies, clearly in an attempt to preemptively placate.

The distinction didn’t matter regardless, and the displaced girl hoped the Ambassador would realize that Liz is pretty non-reactive and doesn’t care for placations much at all. She’s easy to startle, but it would take much more than the Ambassador merely disagreeing with her -- had she bothered to even try, instead of resorting to assuming the Herald could not handle it -- to require any type of acknowledgement whatsoever.

Myra shrugs her shoulders and stretches her neck, pulling her muscles upwards with a sigh when she reaches her arms up. “When are we heading out, then?”

Cassandra and Leliana lock eyes from across the table, a clear sign that this, also, will be something up for debate. Liz sighs.

“We will let you know,” Cassandra decides on.

“Got it.”

Leliana leans forward curiously. “Now, Herald, the Council discussed this and wished to ask about the-”

“-strip of fabric I’ve wrapped around my face?” they correctly guessed. Leliana merely nods to confirm their prediction. They avert their eyes. “I, um… Myra,” they frantically motion Treveylan to bend down to her side.

For several moments there’s only hushed whispering from Liz to Myra and incredulous stares from the Council.

They watch closely for reactions from Myra, noting with unease when her eyebrows jump in more than just slight surprise. Eventually, with wet eyes, Liz draws back and discreetly rubs her face, and then hides behind Myra when she straightens herself and turns to the Council.

“Well?” Cullen inquired when silence claimed the room and no one else chose to say anything.

Myra rubs a hand over her face, the other sitting gently on top of Liz’s head as they huddle close to Myra’s side. “Liz has shared with me that she… that her homeland was amidst a terrible virus.”

“What would a strip of cloth do?” Cassandra asks plainly.

Trevelyan turns to Liz, who pulls it down briefly to speak. “I’m hoping it will prevent the spread of my mucus or any sort of bodily fluid passing through the air for now; a barrier between the bacteria in my body and everyone else… Just until I know I’m not carrying.”

Josephine nods slowly, the melancholy rhyme of the song she had shared with her the other day making much more sense. “You have already been observing wearing this for several days, yes? 

Liz pulls it back over her nose. “Yes. A few more days, at least. Oh, f-gods, I don’t know how long it’s been.”

They put their forehead in their hands at the realization that they have _no_ idea how calendars here work, and haven't seen one in who knows how long. _Oh, I’m gonna pass out._

Her vision blurs as she feels her blood pressure drop and she stumbles, hearing varied expressions of alarm. 

Turning to Myra, she says, “Heeey, Myra? If I fall, can you make sure I don’t hit my head? I’ve had _way_ too many concussions, and if I get another head injury I think the amnesia thing might start getting more… perm... permanent…”

And then she remembers feeling weightless, and nothing.

* * *

When she wakes up, she expects to be in the war room next to Myra. Instead she’s in her bed, what she _thinks_ is several hours later and her body feels like ass. _Oh, right. I felt like I was going to pass out. I didn’t think I actually would though. Will I be able to even explain blood pressure…_

Myra groans and rubs a hand over her face, waking up with much more noise than Liz did. She notices Liz is awake and that spurs her into action, leaning forward.

“Are you alright?”

Liz smiles uneasily. “I just got overwhelmed. Sometimes…”

_Do I even want to bother explaining her low blood pressure and stress and…_

“I get a little faint,” she decides on, rubbing the back of her neck. “I need to remember to drink a lot of water.”

Myra nods her head. “Okay,” she steeples her fingers. “Are you sure that’s all?”

Liz considers telling her for a moment, explaining it.

But then the prospect exhausts her so much that she shakes her head and replies with a smile, “Yeah, that’s all.”

Myra makes her stay in bed, however she does teach her how to read the Theodosian Calendar, and Liz learns what day it is. It’s been three weeks. Three surreal weeks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana instructs Liz on the bow, and feels something. (Justinia would be proud for her caring about another human being, woohoo)  
> Cassandra is doing bad at this whole 'get-along-with-others' thing. Myra... just wants a drink. Liz opens up slightly, but does it matter when she hides just as much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me be so extremely honest  
> i am so gay, okay? so is liz. fuck it, if hypothetically Leliana was anywhere near me i would blush on principle. liz would literally die because gay in these situations. realistic. (tbh, im confident enough to say i might actually go for it if i was in one of these situations. go big or go home right? if i was stuck in another world??? bro. I have no impulse control.)

_“Again!”_

Liz lets the arrow loose, but like many others, she knows it’s going to not even hit the target _before_ it doesn’t. Cassandra growls in frustration, Liz winces and ducks her head, trying to hide from the disapproval.

“Come on Seeker, lighten up,” Varric tries to calm the woman, munching on some unidentified snack on a stool a couple hundred yards away, watching for both entertainment — who _wouldn’t_ want to watch history happen? — and to ensure that Cassandra doesn’t take her short temper out on the Herald.

The Seeker huffs and turns her back on Varric. “You should be—what _now?”_

Liz’s focus is pointed at something coming behind the Seeker, and Cassandra turns to see a silently approaching Leliana, somehow making no noise against the ice-like snow, the soft soles of her shoes almost absent.

“Need assistance, Cassandra?” Leliana’s lilting tone teases her friend, and in doing so shames Liz, who sucks in a quiet breath and ducks her head once again.

“I have it handled, Spymaster,” Cassandra replies stiffly, and then turns to the Herald. “Liz, show Leliana what you have learned.”

Leliana watches closely as Liz sucks in a breath and pulls her shoulders together, nodding tightly before taking up a tense stance. Cassandra barks at her to fix it, which she does — _while mumbling an apology_ — and Leliana notices not only the slight tremble in her hands before she shoots the arrow, but the deep furrow in her brow of determination.

The arrow hits just a ring off center.

“That’s the most improvement she’s made all day,” Cassandra says, commenting as if the young woman can’t hear her.

With her eyes still on the Herald, she watches Liz’s hands clench around the bow. Then she says,

“I would like to take over her archery training, Cassandra.”

Cassandra scoffs, insulted, which the observant rogue thinks is rather ironic for the oblivious warrior to be right now. “Do you think I am not—“

 _This woman is nearly impossible._ “Please, Cassandra. You are more than an accomplished warrior. _However_ , archery comes easily to me. You are a warrior, not a rogue. Let _me_ teach her.”

The Seeker can’t think of a counter to this and huffs, calling Liz over. The girl won’t raise her eyes from the ground, almost certainly unable to take the harsh edge — at this age — that Cassandra no doubt dishes out, the Spymaster knowing enough about her by observing.

“Leliana is going to be taking over your training. Listen to her closely.”

There’s a quiet mumble of, _“yes, Seeker,”_ in response, and then Cassandra is stepping back to observe.

Leliana kneels in front of Liz, arms crossed over her knees. “Hello, Herald. I hope your day has been well.”

The reply is demure, but genuine. “Hello, Sister Leliana. I hope your day has been good as well.”

She notices that they don’t say anything about their day, deflecting, but she also recognizes it isn’t the time or place to say anything. “It has been uneventful. Now,” she stands and steps back. “Show me your most relaxed stance.”

Liz tries, but knowing Cassandra and Varric are watching, she ends up tense. Leliana looks back and makes a vague _shooing_ motion. Varric catches on quickly, picking up his stool and using it to herd the Seeker away, all the while throwing a thumbs up to the Spymaster.

“ _Now,_ your most relaxed stance?”

Liz takes a deep breath and settles into their stance, bow drawn back. Their back stretches into the proper posture, muscles held into position by upper back strength. They breathe deeply through their nose and out through their mouth, making sure to keep them even.

“Not bad,” Leliana says, circling her.

“Thank you,” the young woman murmurs, eyes cast off in the distance, cheeks pink at the inspection and her infamous shyness rearing its head.

“Do you mind if I make some adjustments?”

The Herald’s eyes blinked open like a ram in torchlight but nodded, breathing deeply. While outwardly she was calm, inwardly she was panicking.

 _Don’t blush just because she’s a woman. She’s an older woman. She could be any of your friends! She’s like, in her thirties!_ The reminder that she knew these people better than they knew her made her thoughts settle slightly, but also distracted her. Because of her frantic thoughts she neglected to pay attention to when Leliana would be coming up behind her to adjust her posture, and she stiffened instinctively.

The Spymaster paused, hesitant.

“Are you alright?” there was slight concern in her voice, and Liz blushed like a fool. _You’re nervous about another girl -- woman -- literally just touching your skin and made it seem like you’re upset. Good job._

They do their best to relax and roll their shoulders, looking back at Leliana with a smile. Leliana sighs but she returns it, and steps closer, to which Liz finally looks forward to pay attention.

(She _tries_ not to pay attention to how Leliana’s hands feel on her wrists when she repositions them, or on her shoulders, or literally anywhere, because she’s over a decade her senior… and because she lied to all of them about her age. The idea of pursuing someone while actively lying to them made her feel gross.That thought takes the blush off her face easier. She just also hasn't been experiencing much human touch lately and _man_ she really gets what they meant by humans are social creatures now.)

Leliana sticks one foot between her legs and kicks them further apart, and the blush reappears. _This woman must know what an effect she has on gay women with no defenses, dammit!_

The Spymaster leans down to say,

“Now, when you aim—“

“—look slightly to the left of the center, and make sure to take into consideration the wind and incline.”

Leliana raises her eyebrows, and then furrows them. From the way Charter had made it sound, Cassandra had been having absolutely no luck with Liz, described ‘helpless and unknowing’, the sun making its way across the sky and no progress being made. But she knows at least basics, which leaves two options: Either Liz allowed Cassandra to believe she was ignorant, or Cassandra truly believed she had made no progress.

She draws back from the Herald and comes around to face her, then leans back on her heels and asks, “Why did you have such a difficult time with Cassandra if you know the basics?”

Liz un-nocks the bow and sucks on her bottom lip, but doesn’t answer, instead looking away.

“Well?”

They mumble their answer now.

“Hm?” Leliana encourages her to repeat what they said, surprised with her own patience. Perhaps it’s Justinia living on through her.

“... I don’t know,” they practically mutter.

The Spymaster-turned-Archery-Teacher furrowed her brow. “You don’t know?”

Liz spun on her heel and turned away from Leliana. The Spymaster noticed the young woman was trembling slightly. 

“Herald?”

“Don’t call me that,” the young woman replied, a hiss bubbling up in her voice, before she frowned and took a step backwards. “I’m sorry.”

Leliana hadn’t insofar had very many one-on-one interactions with them, but she was _very_ confused.

“Are you... alright?” she asks slowly.

“Yes,” they reply, eyes focused on something else, but there’s nothing in the direction she turns to look in.

“Pardon my forwardness, but you do not appear to be, Herald," Leliana said, surprising herself. 

She has not felt much in the past week or two since the Conclave. Not much at all. Except small sparks of hope, due to this young woman in front of her, who despite her displacement and fear has tried her best and put all of herself into it, which is more than they can ask for. At times, she has felt worry, a vague thing in the back of her mind when she wonders if the world will fall apart despite her desperate fingertips that try to keep the seams together from the stage rafters, pulling the strings. 

Lately, there has been worry for this woman, the Herald, who seems to either have no self-preservation instinct or just ignores it entirely. It is strange but not unwelcome, not pushing away the chance to feel _something_ when it shows itself to her.

That seems to do it, where suddenly the Herald spins on her heel with fear and anger shining brightly and clearly, as opposed to the neutral indifference her face normally wears. And then just as soon as it’s there, it drains out of her and she’s left looking small and tired. 

“Does it matter?” They ask, back turned to Leliana.

“Yes,” the Spymaster replies simply, cautiously moving towards the Herald so as not to startle her, much like a wild animal. “It does. Herald… Liz?”

Liz is caught off guard by the softer tone. “Yes?”

Now Leliana seems to hesitate before she sighs, and asks, “Would you like a hug?”

Liz turns back around to stare at Leliana for several moments, not quite gaping, but not quite sure why she’s offering. “... Is it in exchange for something? You don’t have to barter physical touch to get something out of me, you know. You can just ask.”

And _oh_ , Leliana hadn’t expected that to hurt quite so much; the idea that perhaps her reputation might precede her, and that Liz believed her so cruel to use such a thing against her. But then, she also realized that was incredibly unlikely, and still found herself not quite comfortable with the fact that it was something the Herald thought _anyone_ would do with her, even if _she_ happens to be a Spymaster. 

It makes her wonder about the things she might remember about her past, what her life had been like, to think such things. And none of the thoughts that came to mind were pleasant.

These thoughts did not settle anything in Leliana. If anything, she started feeling more in this instant. _Protective,_ she realized, and her heart ached distantly knowing that Justinia would be so proud of her for caring about her. For _feeling_ something.

“No,” Leliana shook her head, lips turned downward just slightly. “No exchanges, no tricks. I simply wanted to offer you a hug.”

Liz blinks. Though still clearly slightly skeptical, she blushes as she realizes her mistake. “Sorry, I assumed…”

Leliana waved a hand, indicating it was not a problem. As her last offer, she opens her arms to the Herald and closes her eyes, bracing against both the wind and the possibility of the rejection of her offer of comfort.

After several moments of nothing she goes to step back, but then _someone_ rushes into her arms — like they had worked up the nerve to do so — and hugs her.

Leliana’s eyes open to see the Herald tensely hugging her. She finally closes her arms around her, keeping her motions slow to be sure not to startle her. Though Liz flinches slightly when her hand makes contact, when the Spymaster asks about it, she shakes her head and finally relaxes into the embrace.

Although twenty summers, the Herald is the shortest non-dwarf adult person she’s ever met, and she’s met more people than the average person has had dealings with. Liz’s head only comes up to _most_ of their chests, making them all wonder what future political dealings would end up being like.

The Herald had said she’s _“five-feet two inches,”_ to a room of blank looks, and they resigned to getting her measured by their own standards at a later date instead of questioning her already tormented memory.

When they finally speak, it’s to gently say, _“Merci_ , Sister Leliana,” in their strangely unaccented voice, muffled slightly by their position in Leliana’s coat and not seeming like they’re going to move an inch.

“Liz,” she replies softly, “You do not have to use titles when we are alone.”

A small smile spread on her face, unbeknownst to the Spymaster, though she does bury her head in the woman's chest. _“Merci…_ Leliana.”

 _“De rien,_ Liz,” Leliana reassures, brushing her hand over the young woman's head once and then continuing the motion. “You do not have to tell me what kept you from training with Cassandra. But know if you wish to talk about it, I can lend an ear. I imagine this is all quite a lot on you.”

 _In fact, I was around her age when my path crossed with the Warden._ The realization that the woman was young was a difficult thing to swallow, especially when it made her realize how young _she_ had been at that age and _younger— only two years,_ to her horror _._ Now her eyes are opened by years of experience and perspective she hadn’t had then.

There’s a stifled sob from the young woman in her arms, and she instinctively stills her movement and tightens her grip. “Liz?”

_Did I say something? Perhaps it was mentioning her situation…_

“I… my mother had a terminal illness, back home,” she rushes out, choking back tears. “I remembered several days ago, amid a dream that contained memories of my life. She could be dead right now and I would have no idea.”

Leliana felt her heart sink, lowering her chin to the top Herald’s and gently rubbing her back. It seems to be the right thing to do, as the Herald sniffles and sighs. 

“Not only that, but I… how can any of you look up to me or at me for answers? I’m just…”

Liz closes her eyes, dry and cakey around the edges of them and moist on the inside, and doesn’t elaborate.

“Just…?”

“I’m just one girl,” Liz replies in a small voice.

“Young woman,” Leliana corrects.

“... mhm,” they agree after a pause, tripping Leliana’s internal tripwire. 

_What are you hiding?_

Liz continues, unaware of Leliana’s internal suspicion. “Cassandra… it’s hard to focus and be taught when you’re both revered by someone and suspected for murder of one of the most important people in their life.”

The Spymaster nods, sympathy coloring her features. Cassandra is complicated and she herself had admitted over the days that Liz had been asleep after the Breach went into dormancy that she was hesitant to believe that the young woman was the culprit, but she was grieving. Leliana could not force her to treat Liz any differently than she could make the sky a different color. While counterproductive -- and she suspects, eventually, the Seeker would realize this -- Cassandra usually does first and thinks later. Which means if she’s putting up walls and refusing to allow the Herald any slack, it is what she will do, and Leliana can’t change that. Regardless of how useful it was for Cassandra or _anyone_ around her, she was stubborn, and everyone was… raw, emotionally right now. It would simply have to be as it was.

Deciding to address what she _has_ answers to, Leliana steps back and places her hands on the Herald’s shoulders. “Liz, when the Conclave exploded… it was nothing _anyone_ had ever seen. And I have seen an Archdemon, been to the Fade in dreams… among other things that many _dream_ of setting their eyes on.

“There was chaos, predictably. This had been the last chance for peace… there would be no more after this. So much blood spilled… and not all of it because of the war. The demons were difficult to push back, as many of us were on our way to the Temple at the time… and then, amidst it all, you.”

Liz looks up at Leliana now, eyes unreadable, before they look away and clench their marked hand. 

“Me.”

“You were a beacon of hope for them. For everyone. As many have told you, they said Andraste stood behind you and Trevelyan in the portal. We worried you would not wake up at first. And then, before we knew it, you had made it up the mountain, closing rifts, and then…

“You put it into _dormancy._ After days of chaos, of fear and terror, you brought some semblance of peace, so they could breathe. Perhaps you could understand why they’d look to you, after that?”

“I didn’t even… it didn’t even work, though,” Liz counters weakly, their marked hand now clutched tightly around their waist.

Leliana clucks her tongue gently, reaching for the marked hand. Liz sighs and places her hand in hers. The Spymaster tugs off her glove amidst her sudden insistence, and then she stares.

It is… hauntingly pretty, in a way. It’s a dark, vibrant green, flashing like a storm every now and then, and seeming to beat with her pulse. Around the ‘center’ of the mark, her skin is puckered and burned, scars leading further up her arm. Traces of green glow underneath veins and skin untouched by the mark and Liz’s face burns.

“Does it hurt?”

_Every time I move my hand it feels like I’m moving it against glass so sharp they’re knives, with a buzzing like numbness that I can’t shake._

“Not much, no,” she lies through her teeth, flexing the hand with little difficulty, forcing her expression to stay straight. If she had managed to fit in with abled people for her entire life, she could continue to do so, with another disability.

That’s what this was going to be, she had realized. It was going to chronically poison her, she already could tell.

 _(Not to mention forcing herself to stay straight… she’d been in the closet before, and who knows how they’d react here._ That will become another thing she tucks inside her so no one may rip it from her. The characters might be able to have sapphic relationships, but it's _real_ now. _)_

Leliana placed the glove back on and gently held her gloved hand now. “Whether or not the mark did what it was ‘supposed to do’ is moot. Dormancy was better than anything. No one else had managed to affect it.”

“Do I inspire hope in _you,_ Leliana? Who am I to you, the Council? Am I the Herald, or am I a person?” Liz asks suddenly, looking like she wants to flee, but too nervous to do so. “Am I real to anyone here?”

Surprisingly, Leliana found herself saying _yes._ If someone had asked her a couple days ago, she may have not had an answer for them, which shames her. But she can see now, and she hopes Justinia is proud of her.

“I cannot speak for anyone but myself, but you are Liz, the Herald of Andraste. Do I know if you truly are? I am unsure. But you have done all you can despite your unusual circumstances, have tried _so_ hard… you have inspired change in me, yes. You are _real_ to me.”

Liz’s eyes water and her lip quivers and Leliana simply pulls her back in. She leans into it and cries softly, comforted by Leliana rubbing her back and gentle humming.

Eventually, it slows and then stops, and they feel better. Lighter. They reach up to wipe their nose and eyes on their sleeve, pretending they don’t notice Leliana wrinkle her nose as they do it, and breathe deeply and then separate from Leliana.

“Okay, I’m ready. _Merci beaucoup_.”

“Now, let’s get to work. If you will,” the rogue gestures to Liz’s bow, laying in the snow.

Liz gets into their stance and knocks the arrow, breathing deeply and once again forcing their left hand to close, relaxing their jaw through the teeth-gritting pain.

They can’t quite get their aim right at first, hands shaking and a bit off center. Leliana steps behind them thoughtlessly to correct it. “Here, Liz, like this…”

Liz turns her head for approval once she’s made the changes. The Spymaster nods encouragingly, looking towards the target. “Now try.”

Liz tries to focus so hard, but _Blessed Aphrodite,_ her mind shouts unbidden when Leliana’s hair brushes her newly sensitive ears, and her blush returns ten-fold. _Focus!_ _Aphrodite, please! Spare me your wiles._

She takes a deep breath and nocks, eyes on the target. Once she’s planned it’s course, she releases it.

Liz’s arrow hits the center of the target. Leliana internally smirks. She knew the Herald had it in her, Cassandra simply can’t teach someone as… sensitive? _Sensitive,_ as the Herald. 

“ _Parfait_ , Liz.”

“ _Oui_?”

Leliana feels her lips curl up just a bit, and she places a hand on her shoulder. “Indeed. If you showed this to Cassandra, her tune would change quite a bit. _Or_ it may make her a bit crabby that she wasn’t able to train you… depends.”

That gets a small chuckle out of the young girl. No prodigy by any means, but certainly human. And perhaps human, perhaps someone who is untouched by the Game, is exactly what they need.

It gives Leliana quite a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merci - thank you  
> de rien - you're welcome/it's nothing  
> merci beaucoup - thank you very much  
> 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> decision making and setting out on adventure

When Cullen and Cassandra finally stop arguing and decide on troop numbers _—_ Myra was the one who ended _that_ argument _—_ they set out. 

They set out on a wagon, which Liz thought was funny because of ‘primitive technology’, (to which Varric had looked at her funny when she had elaborated when he asked about the snort she let out). 

But she passed the time by reading, staring at plants as they passed _—_ occasionally reaching for plants that suddenly caught her interest, and nearly falling out of the damn wagon if Cassandra didn’t have such great reflexes _—_ and humming, much to the varied displeasure of everyone else in the party. 

Myra didn’t mind it, happy to have something to listen to instead of her constantly racing mind while she relaxed in the cart, Varric thought it was kind of cute but tuned it out, Solas was mildly annoyed, and Cassandra...

_“Herald.”_

“Yes?” Liz replies, still humming and seemingly oblivious to the irritation of the warrior. 

Myra lends an ear to the conversation, but otherwise kept completely still; arms crossed over her chest and eyes shut.

“We have been traveling for hardly a day,” Cassandra rubs a hand over her face tiredly. “And you are humming. _Loudly_.”

The Herald sighs and pouts. “How else am I going to occupy my time? I can sing it instead if you want. It’s kind of a children’s song though. Here, it goes like this: _‘We’re going on a bear hunt—“_

“ _—_ Why would _children_ go on a bear hunt?” Cassandra interjects, bewildered.

“They wouldn’t,” Liz replies patiently, her level mood from always being aware of how out of place she is here. “It’s a song about going out to look for bears for an adventure, and then running into obstacles. They do find a bear, but are chased all the way back to their home. It’s mostly just a song to keep kids occupied.”

Cassandra just watches the trees go by as she thinks. Liz shifts, and prompts, “Don’t you have things like that here? Um… Like, there was this song called, _‘Ring Around the Rosie’_ , a popular children’s song, and a myth around it that it was based on a plague.”

“What song could create a myth that it was based on a plague?” Solas inquires curiously, one eyebrow raised high. He seems to enjoy learning the lore she remembers about her home.

Liz shoots him a wry grin before reciting,

“ _‘Ring around the Rosie_

_Pockets full of posie,_

_Ashes, ashes,_

_We all fall down!’_ ”

They shake their head. "I never grew up thinking it was a scary song. We skipped and played to it.

“Now, the myth is because of this: when the world went through the Great Plague, the circle was supposed to represent a circular rash. The ‘pockets full of posies’ were herbs and flowers carried for protection against it. Ashes was meant to represent the sneezing associated with the Plague, and subsequently dying when you ‘fell down’.”

There’s a quiet silence following the sentence, the words _when the world went through_ sticking out like a misplaced brick.

Cassandra’s eyes are wide, though, and she says, “How morbid. And children sang this song?”

Liz replies energetically, eyes alight in only the way they get when getting to share history and folklore, “I myself played to it as a little one. We would skip in a circle, holding hands, and fall to the ground.”

Their companions stare at them and they smile, continuing, “There’s plenty of songs that are just as, if not more, morbid, though. Like that one song based on a girl who killed her family with an axe… Oh, there’s lots of modern songs that came up in... _stories_... that were a bit morbid, too. Some weren’t too bad though. I think as time went on the focus became less intent on scaring the children shitless, so then they shifted into like, just mildly ominous songs for kids.”

 _Stories_ meaning media and/or movies, but it wouldn’t make sense to reference something not here.

“Such as?” Varric asks now, noting her reluctance.

Varric has been a bit of… well, she can’t say he’s been an ass. He’s been extraordinarily kind to her in her horrible circumstances, and in any other case she’d be kind of afraid of a man being this kind to her for no reason, but there’s nothing about him that screams danger. 

Despite this, during the trip he’s taken it upon himself to needle the small things she realizes she absolutely can’t share, tiny inconsistencies in the stories she shares, seemingly determined to learn all he can about where she’s from with the most authentic details possible.

She thinks for a moment, even though Varric’s prodding made her grumpy. A fond smile crosses her face, even as she fights to recall it. “There was a popular piece of fiction that came out and with it, popular songs. Like, uh, a play. It was based on the folklore and culture of an Indigenous group, called the Saami.”

Myra clears her throat and stretches, opening her eyes and blinking. “Do you know any of the songs?”

They puff out their cheeks before releasing the air and nodding.

“Would you give an example?” Myra asks, the attempt to appear uninterested in the things Liz has to share failing miserably.

Cheeks reddening under expectant silence, their fingers curl in her lap and they look out to the passing trees and foliage. Then they take a deep breath and pull from their stomach,

“' _Where the north wind meets the sea_

_There’s a river full of memory_

_Sleep, my darling, safe and sound_

_For in this river all is found._

_In her waters, deep and true_

_Lie the answers, and a path for you_

_Dive down deep into her sound_

_But not too far or you’ll be drowned.'_ ”

Her voice has always been rather deep, a bit alto. But it carries the smooth, haunting tone of the lullaby well enough.

“Fascinating. And that song was… what was it from again, again, Liz?” Solas asks, eyes bright with new information.

They smile a little bit, hesitant. “The song is based on a group of Indigenous people called the Saami. That song is about a glacier of ice—“

“What is a ‘glacier’,” Varric interrupts, a piece of charcoal in his hand and no time to stop writing, apparently.

Liz sidetracks for him, “A glacier is a large, floating piece of ice, sort of like an iceberg -- an iceberg is a huge piece of frozen ice that floats, in case you don’t know -- except it has water flowing through it as well, and can sometimes be walked through.”

Varric writes furiously and she pretends she doesn’t notice. “Where was I… oh, right. This song is about a glacier who has all the answers; sing to her, and she will sing back. But you must be careful, and not go alone, for the path is dangerous.”

“Right, ‘or you’ll be drowned’?” Varric asks, a light musical tone at the end of his sentence, delighting Liz for a moment.

“Yup,” she nods, then beginning to feel an indescribable ache of loneliness. 

_I will never see them. I will never go home._

The starkness of alienation, of realizing how out of place she is, enters her through her lungs and steals her breath from her chest.

“Why is there a focus on _death_ or _maiming_ in these stories?” Cassandra finally asks, brow furrowed.

Somewhere else — _someone else,_ she realizes suddenly and with no warning, that her memories belong to a different person, a different her — in another time, the words “ _Why do lullabies always have to have some terrible warning in them?"_ echoes in her brain, fond nostalgia twisting with distant loss.

“Dramatic effect?” Liz shrugs finally, after a pause of silence that’s way too long to be normal. “It’s a bit much, but it gets the point across.”

* * *

They finally made it to the Hinterlands and she killed her first person. Not a demon, but a person.

They had been going for a while without incident, until things were too quiet. Cassandra noticed it and began reaching for her shield, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

“Seeker...” Varric muttered lowly, reaching for his crossbow.

Myra began pushing Liz closer to the dwarf and behind her, reaching for her own weapon. Her whole body is tense, making eye contact with Cassandra, the pair seeming to have a silent conversation about what to do.

A whistling sound rings through the trees, too unusual to be a real bird. Across the forest, the call is returned, and then the Templar’s emerge from the brush with swords, maces and bows drawn. 

Varric pushed Liz down as she drew her own bow and she turned around to glare at the dwarf, but he had already started picking out targets. Cassandra and Myra leapt out of the wagon and charged into battle. Solas began casting, freezing a two-handed warrior who started to come up to the wagon in their tracks before Varric nails them with an arrow.

And _that_ was how she ended up here:

Liz stood up, bow drawn, her hand crackling and glowing. “ _Stand down!_ ”

No one listened. She shot an arrow into the knee of a Templar who was getting too close and they fell, allowing Cassandra time to finish them, while Myra swung her sword down onto one who had tried to come up behind the Seeker.

“I _said_ , **stand down!** ”

Varric continued to unleash bolts into them, Bianca’s release and reload capabilities functioning seamlessly with loud _twangs._ “They’re not going to listen!” 

“I can _try_ , can’t I?!”

Suddenly, she was yanked backwards by her hair and out of the wagon. Her scream got stuck in her throat and the breath was stolen from her lungs. Startled shouts went up from her group. On the fall down as she struggled, the Templar lost his grip on her and she scrambled onto her shaking legs, her hands tight around her bow, and lips drawn tightly together.

“ _Don’t_ make me shoot!” Her voice was pleading, and it cracked. 

He kept coming. The Templar adjusted his grip on his sword and shield and prepared to charge her.

* * *

**[In That Moment, a Snippet of a Conversation Between Leliana and Liz Flashes Before Her]**

“If someone raises their weapon to you, what will you do?”

“Ask them to lower it.”

_“Herald.”_

“I will raise my own weapon, and _then_ ask them to lower it?” Liz tried meekly.

Leliana sighed deeply. “I understand this is a difficult—”

Liz interrupted her harshly. “Do you? I’ve never killed a person, the closest I’ve been to dead bodies were my grandparents. How do I take another person's life, even if they’re trying to take mine, knowing they could be leaving people behind? They have reasons, but they’re still a whole person, with thoughts and feelings and history.”

The Spymaster’s face screamed sympathy, and she reached out to wipe away Liz’s tears. She hadn’t realized she had started crying. 

“You are idealistic—” something about what she says feels so familiar, like home, and it disorients Liz so much that she misses a good chunk of what Leliana says. “—you cannot hesitate.”

Liz’s tears begin anew and Leliana shushes her gently. She wipes her own tears away as the Spymaster places firm hands on her shoulders to keep her attention, imparting the importance of this message.

“You cannot hesitate,” she repeats, eyes serious. “Your adversaries will not. If you do, you will die.”

* * *

**[The Present-Moment in 9:42]**

_If you do, you will die._

They aimed, just like Leliana had instructed. They closed their eyes when they released. They knew then that the sound of gurgling will be forever in their ears.

She was left standing there, dazed. Cassandra was the first to get to her, gauntleted hands on her shoulders. “Are you alright? Herald, are you alright? You are not harmed?”

Myra practically shoved the Seeker out of the way, patting her own metal-covered hands over the young woman’s shoulders in worry. “Liz? Liz?”

Liz had swallowed, and opened her eyes. Solas is — as discreetly as one can — wiping blood off of his staff, Varric was behind Cassandra, who stood to the side of Myra, staring down at her with concerned eyes through her helmet. Her eyes fell to the Templar a few feet away, lifeless.

“Yeah,” they whispered, nauseous and overwhelmed. “I’m okay.”

“Was that your first, kid?” Varric asked gently, coming around to wipe splotches of blood off of her skin that landed on her during the fight.

“My first what?” They replied, so dissociated from themselves they were pretty sure there’s four of them.

“Your first kill, Liz.”

_He’s dead. By all the gods above and below, he’s really dead._

“Y-yeah,” she said, mouth barely moving. She was so still she could be a statue. “T-that was my first.”

Cassandra swore under her breath, but her forehead was creased slightly in concern. There was nothing else to do but go forward. The horses snorted impatiently ahead.

“Come, we must continue.”

Liz had shaken and felt her blood pressure rise through the roof. The Templar’s unstaring eyes made guilt wrap around her shoulders and whisper into her ears. She reached out for Myra’s metal-covered hand and holds on tightly, staring blankly at the ground

And thus, the group gingerly got back into the wagon, and they continued.

Later, when they’re setting up for the night, Varric offers to bring them to take down some rams. They relish in the chance to nourish a useful skill and clear their head, and take his offer readily. Unbeknownst to her, Myra watched them leave with clear concern in her eyes as Cassandra set up the tent the three of them would be sharing. 

It would be a tight fit with three of them sharing, but it “would be a waste of resources to get another tent for just one of them”, they each countered when Josephine offered one so they wouldn’t be cramped. They’d each had worse places to sleep, they’d laughed together, baffling the Ambassador.

Later, Liz ‘sacrificed’ — it was simple and could hardly be called a historically accurate ritual sacrifice with structure — some of the unusable parts of the ram that Varric helped her take down for dinner that night. 

She prayed to her chthonic deities and cried, begging their forgiveness and that the person would find their way to the afterlife for judgement. That was about all she remembered aside from whispers and nothingness. 

Alarm suddenly struck her, stark and cold, about all of the people not buried among the Hinterlands. Templar, Mage and civilian alike.

There’s probably so many. The idea of so many souls lost and confused, their imprint haunting the Hinterlands for years to come...

They threw up after that, gasping and gagging, their mouth terribly dry. But the wind shook the trees and they swore they heard something — and when they looked back, the coin they placed on top of the grave had vanished. Their eyes watered again, this time from comfort. _They’re still with me,_ they thought, nearly sobbing with relief. _Even though I’m so far._

When they had finally found enough inner peace and the strength to return, they ignored Varric’s attempt at conversation, probably a way of checking in, and instead fell headfirst into bed. Cassandra and Myra worried over the dried rams blood on their hands and they assured it was not their own before curling up protectively on their side.

* * *

Myra, Varric and Cassandra sat around the fire, while Solas lit a few torches. Then he came and sat across from Varric, who sat diagonal to Myra and across from Cassandra. 

They each quietly settled for the night; Varric took Bianca apart, cleaning and oiling every piece. Solas read from a scroll. Cassandra and Myra figured out camp boundaries and watch times. Solas volunteered for the first one, and Varric took the next.

This allowed Myra to retire as soon as she had finished her ram, which was surprisingly good. Her and Cassandra’s armor stays outside of the tent, covered by a thick tarp that they tie up when they’re not using it. Then she stretches and enters the tent, changing quickly and sliding into her bedroll next to Liz, turning her gaze over to the young woman’s form. _Is she having nightmares too?_

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of armor being removed outside of the tent, and the shadow cast into it. To avoid looking at Cassandra when she’s entering the tent Myra turns fully on her side, facing Liz. 

There’s a hot blush crawling up her neck and cheeks and she curses internally, clutching her fists by her side.

_She only entered the tent! Get a hold of yourself! You’re an adult! Practically a soldier!_

Cassandra pauses like she’s going to say something, but continues silently. Myra lays still, eyes closed, as the Seeker prepares for bed, waiting for the rustling of her bedroll signals that she can open her eyes once again.

Myra turns over onto her other side, which is the exact wrong choice, because as she does she catches a brief glimpse of darkly toned skin, scars of all sizes, muscles that spread across the expanse of her back, and then it’s covered by a sleep shirt and Myra slams her eye shut the rest of the way, fighting to even her breathing. How can _skin_ render her so undone?

Cassandra lies back with a book in her hands, putting the book up in front of her face before asking, “is everything alright?”

Myra’s one visible eye pops open, narrowing on Cassandra’s book. “Hm?”

“You are tense,” Cassandra notes in lieu of explanation, glancing at her from behind the book before ducking behind it again.

_Oh no, I’m being obvious._

Myra chuckles awkwardly and forces her body to relax. “It’s nothing. Just thinking about the last time you and I would’ve been anywhere out in the woods together. It would’ve been with… um. With Brandon,” she whispers, closing her visible eye again and clutching the blanket next to her. 

This excuse hurts a lot more than the truth. Dammit.

Cassandra gently puts her book to the side and places her hands on her lap. “I haven’t taken the time to say this, but I am so, _so_ sorry, Myra,” Myra’s eye shoots open at the use of the preferred version of her name and the apology. “I miss him as well, but losing a brother… your pain does not compare to mine.”

Myra smiles weakly, tears watering in her eyes. Their voices are low so as not to wake the Herald sleeping in the tent.

“Oh, Cassandra. He may as well have been your brother, too. I mean…”

What she was going to say, the words mentioning her absence in their lives before his death, slip off her tongue and she averts her gaze. “I am sure he would agree with me.”

The Seeker huffs in frustration, seemingly observant tonight. “You had more to say. I will not break.”

“I don’t want to start a fight, Cass,” the nickname slips from her lips without care, her eyes falling shut again. “I’m tired. I miss my brother. I know he loved you and considered you family, even when you weren’t around,” she doesn’t say _even if you left,_ because the last thing they need is a fight.

And she’s avoiding it, Cassandra has her nailed one-hundred-percent. But she doesn’t need to know that. 

The Seeker sighs deeply, picks her book back up, and returns to reading for a long while.

Myra does not fall asleep, unable to with thoughts of her brother and the past now heavily on her mind. She’s still awake when Cassandra extinguishes her candle and puts the book away and settles in for bed. She’s not sure what gives her away, but suddenly she hears Cassandra say dryly,

“Do you plan on sleeping any time soon, Trevelyan?”

“... I’m _thinking,_ Pentaghast,” she mocks, earning a disgusted noise.

Cassandra turns onto her side facing Myra now. They’re very close in the cramped tent, close enough to see each other’s faces almost, in the dark of night. Myra’s eyes remain closed, but Cassandra’s are intently open. Trevelyan can feel her tracing her face with her eyes.

“Indulge me,” the other woman asks, noting the scars that she hadn’t noticed before. “Tell me of this one,” she points to the one intersecting her eyebrow, skipping her eye and cutting through the skin of her cheek.

"A broken bookcase came down on my face," she replies a bit stiffly, face heating.

Cassandra inhales sharply. "How?"

The argument with her oldest brother flashes before her eyes when he slammed the bookcase in rage, pieces of it flying all over the room as he did so. A splintered piece of wood came towards her face and cut downward. Myra had been moving as she got hit, so the lower half of her face took the brunt of the damage.

"Uh, an argument," Myra replies lamely.

The Seeker huffs and closes her eyes, settling into her bedroll and turning onto her other side.

“Cassandra?” Myra whispers several minutes later, not sure what possessed her to decide to ask in the first place, but she powers through it. “Can we… Do you remember when we were kids?”

The Seeker shifts. “When you had night terrors?”

_Damn her perceptiveness._

“... yeah.”

Cassandra sighs. “Come here.”

Myra smiles and moves her bedroll closer, joining their blankets. Then she hesitantly wraps her arm around Cassandra’s middle, heart racing. Her face is on fire and she buries her face in Cassandra’s back, drifting off within minutes.

“G’night, Casss…” she slurs, eyes slipping shut.

Cassandra, after some consideration, places her hand over Myra’s and closes her eyes, ready to drift off before her watch.

* * *

It felt like hours before she tumbled through the Fade into dreaming. Vaguely Liz remembers hearing Myra and Cassandra enter the tent and quietly go through getting ready for the night. There was a point where they were whispering to each other, but it sounded like static to her. Everything felt far away.

That being said, they’ll never get used to how dreaming works here. It’s not just going into your own mind, it’s an entire realm of magic and it’s like diving through air to water; only into another atmosphere, able to breathe, yet still feeling submerged. 

Apparently this isn’t something everyone is supposed to be able to do — at least not all the time. They seem to be doing it nearly every night.

Solas had explained to them, briefly, before the group left that because of the mark, it has a different effect on the veil and themself. So despite not being a mage themself, he had said carefully, as if searching for a reaction, they might visit the Fade.

This was not one of those nights. Tonight they had little control over the dream they had, dark and echoing and utterly alone, being pulled into the ground by cold hands they couldn’t see.

They shot up with a gasp in their bedroll, hands flying up to their neck, desperate to hold on to something. They grasp their necklace — which, though they used to sleep with it off, they do not part with it at night any longer — and one arm goes around their knees that come up to their chest.

Cassandra smacks her lips together and leans up to squint at her tentmate as Myra groans and blinks her eyes open, also sitting up now. “Herald? Do you require assistance?”

Unfortunately, most times when she wakes from a nightmare she wakes with a migraine and this is no exception. She’s disoriented — as this is a migraine of the ocular variety — and her mouth won’t cooperate. 

_Gods_ , their hands are trembling. 

Cassandra becomes increasingly worried when she doesn’t answer, moving around the other warrior while Myra lights a candle. it’s a tight fit, but they make it work, Treveylan coming to sit on one side of Liz and Cassandra scooting closer from her side as well.

“What is wrong? _Herald_? _Liz_?” 

No answer, the teeth clacking together continues. 

Myra tries this time, reaching a hand out to which they hold a shaking hand up, warning off touch. “Liz?”

Liz swallows thickly and closes their eyes. “I t-think… I had a bad dream.”

“A bad dream?” Cassandra asks incredulously, but at Myra’s sharp look she realizes she needs to soften her tone. “I believe you had a night terror. I... have had them, before. Do... do you wish to talk about it?”

Myra adds seriously, “there’s no rush. I understand nightmares, Liz. I’m here if you need to talk.”

There’s a pause. 

“No, I’m okay,” they say with a small, wavering smile, before laying back down and turning away, curling up impossibly tightly. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you, though.”

Myra and Cassandra exchange worried looks. With a concerned frown, Myra blows out the candle and the warriors settle back into their bedrolls. With a sense of unease Myra watches the shaking, unsteady rise and fall of Liz’s back.

Myra turns on to her left side so as to watch Liz for a bit, and Cassandra wordlessly moves her bedroll closer and wraps her arm around Myra’s waist and goes to sleep. Myra breathes praise to the Maker in that moment, if there is one.

The first thing that Myra notices the next morning is that Liz is up before both of them, which means they must’ve gotten up at an absurd hour, because Cassandra is an early riser and Myra is an early riser under stress.

The second thing that Myra notices is how Cassandra’s face is pressed into her neck, almost laying on top of her, an arm around her waist. Her cheeks are bright red and she fights her racing pulse. _It’s just Cassandra,_ she tries to calm herself, but that only makes it worse. Cassandra _is cuddling me!_

She wants to burrow into the embrace and tighten her hold… but there were boundaries. Things were the way they were between them for a reason. As carefully as she can, she slips out of her bedroll, gathering her clothes and getting dressed silently. Before she exits the tent, she turns heavy eyes on Cassandra, sleeping peacefully, and sighs under her breath. Then she steps out into the early morning and closes the tent flap behind her.

In the tent, Cassandra releases a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and is left with her thoughts as she gets up and gets ready to go through her morning stretches and drills.

Myra finds Liz sitting before the long dead embers of the fire, somehow having started a small fire at the edge of it. They shrug when asked about it. 

“Underneath, the coals were still hot. Use a couple of leaves and your breath and you’ve got a little fire to place a firewood on, if you’re quick.”

Myra snorts and sits down next to her, grabbing her fire starter and lighting up the campfire. “Or, you can do that.”

“Never learned how to.”

“I can teach you,” Myra replies, still awed by all of the things that are almost second nature to her are things that Liz never learned at all.

After that, Liz doesn’t talk much the next day. She works through taking down the targets as fast as possible — _targets_ , she calls them, never their class — and trying to hide the shaking in her hands, caused by a few things — anxiety and pain mostly, but fear is also up there.

Unbeknownst to her, there have been multiple times Myra — and subsequently Cassandra — noticed the swollen joints of the young woman’s hands, especially in the cold nights and she hadn’t heard her say a thing about it.

Even worse, early in the morning when they’re rising — though the moments when they rise before Liz are rare — they whimper in pain as they move in their sleep. 

From what the warriors can tell, they have no outward wounds at all, but still... if they are hurting, why do they not say something?

Her and Varric are thick as thieves, rambling over the fire about inane things or sharing smart looks and talking in double meanings. Liz is incredibly witty when allowed to flourish, they found, after the shy woman disappears.

It’s hard to draw her out, though — especially when she feels embarrassed or like they’ve made fun of her. _Clamps up like the hardest oysters in the Low Town markets,_ Varric likened it to.

And apparently, also according to Varric, with a glint in his eye — trying to get a smile from the young woman — they, “once clamped down on something _very_ important to someone in the markets”, but _that's_ where Cassandra drew a line in the conversation. In hindsight, she should’ve seen it coming and stopped the conversation earlier. 

However, it did get a small laugh out of the Herald. Which almost made the triumphant grin from Varric worth it. Almost.

She’s not what they expected to walk out of the Fade that fateful day that threw the world into chaos, but perhaps exactly what they needed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossroads, Mother Giselle and deer hunting. Ethics and morality are discussed heavily. Solas conversation

**[9:42 Dragon, Somewhere over the Rainbow in the Hinterlands]**

“The Chosen of Andraste,” Solas quips while they travel, making her skip a step at the words, familiar in the same way other conversations have been familiar, and making her distinctly nauseous. He has his hands clasped behind his back and his staff is harnessed safely, simply gazing at it all, as if it’s passing too slowly for his taste. “Come to save us in our hour of need.”

Myra sighed from her position behind the two of them, the tension already thick from Solas’ prodding.

“Oh? Did I come on a steed? Listen, I didn’t exactly make a grand entrance.” 

_Or good impressions on everybody,_ they think.

Solas raises an eyebrow. “I would’ve suggested a—“

“—griffon?” they grin sharply — and, if one were to look more closely, hollowly — when his head whips to face them in surprise.

“... yes,” he agrees reluctantly, like a hen settling ruffled feathers. “I would have suggested as such, but sadly they are extinct. Surely, though, you understand the need for posturing?”

“Oh yeah,” she agrees, and wants to punch his lights out because of his smug smile, used to her overly strong reactions to everything he does by now. “People need something to look to or everything is going to go to shit. What the people don’t know won’t hurt them.”

Varric sighs, eyeing her with that sad look he always does when she says stuff like this — which, between Cassandra’s _you are the Herald speeches_ and Solas’ _you are important because you have the mark_ speeches, is a lot. 

“Kid, you’re too hard on yourself.”

 _“No,_ I’m really not,” she stubbornly replies, crossing her cold arms and looking out to the sunset on the horizon, highlighting her cheekbones and dark hair brightly. “I am _realistic_. I’m really young with no battle experience or political knowledge. Whoever — or whatever — had me end up in this position really wanted to try and doom this effort before it even started.

“I’m just someone who was in the wrong place at the right time.”

He sniffs haughtily and internally Cassandra groans from her spot ahead — she can tell this will end up in another fight. She wonders if anyone is keeping track. Maybe Varric, for his next book. However, it doesn’t turn into the issue she thought it would.

Solas eyes her contemplatively and then looks out to the distance as well, humming in neither assent or dissent.

“As you say,” he concedes in a tone that tells her he absolutely disagrees and _then_ proceeds to tell her exactly how much. “However, I have studied the Fade for years, seen the ancient battlefields and heroes of every age, both revered and forgotten. I am just curious—“

“What type of hero I’ll be, yeah, I get it,” she huffs in exasperation, missing the look of surprise he sends her way as she rolls her eyes. “But _you_ don’t get it. No matter what, I’m _not_ a hero. But people _need_ someone to at least look like they’re fixing things. So if a hero I must be, a hero I’ll become.

“Look at the Hero of Ferelden for example, or the Champion of Kirkwall. Non-extraordinary people who, when needed, did what was needed because no one else could. We don’t choose the titles people give us.”

Varric looks at her with a thoughtful expression. “What are they, if not extraordinary?”

Their reply is quiet, so quiet that everyone in the group listening intently almost missed it. “People, Varric. They’re people. And people deserve to be remembered for being people, not just for living their lives in service to others. People are beautiful as they are; culture, tradition, art, how a community cares for each other… Those are the things people should remember. The beautiful things.”

Cassandra blinks, moved by Liz’s declaration. She clears her throat discreetly.

“To bring this back to what you said, Solas,” Liz looks at him seriously, eyes carrying a weight that seems to pull her into the ground, “the hero I will be is the type who is not a hero. I will protect indiscriminately, regardless of race or gender or preference. I will love without fear. As for being a hero? It just doesn’t fit me, I’m afraid.”

He nods slowly, expression giving nothing away. “Noted,” he replies. “I suppose we shall have to see where you lead us.”

“Hopefully not ruin,” she quips dryly, though there’s something self-deprecating to her tone.

**[Not-Present Day, 9:41 Dragon, Hinterlands Crossroads.]**

* * *

They finally made it to the Crossroads after several days of travel. Scout Harding was surprised by Liz’s age -- and height -- but they hit it off and the dwarrowdam pointed them in the direction of the concentrated problem.

It was a bloody fight. They tried to keep Liz on the edge of it, but she kept rushing into danger recklessly because she didn’t believe in leaving anyone when there was a possibility for life to be saved.

She ended up in the middle of three skirmishes at once, her eyes becoming fierce and joining the tired-looking Rebel mages fighting bandits and Templars. 

She drew her bow and yelled when she released, unsure of where it came from, a bright pattern lighting up the chest of the Templar when it hit him. He dropped to his knees, stunned, and blue light still emitting from his armor slightly. She blinked, surprised.

No time to contemplate, Cassandra stuck her sword through his middle from behind. One of the rebel mages fighting with Liz kills a bandit sneaking up on her. Once the battle was over, they turned to her, wary but thankful.

She was panting and leaning on her knees. They looked to her nervously as the party approached. 

“We’ll be setting up here. Find the Inquisition, say the Herald sent you. The Mages have safe harbor here!”

Cassandra’s eyes burn shocked holes into her head for making such a bold claim and Myra looks impressed. They can’t see Varric or Solas, but the Mages thank them profusely, all looking thin, dirty, and exhausted. Their clothes are basically rags, they’re barely standing from lack of food and water. Liz reaches into her pack and gives her rations to the group and grapples around for something to drink.

“Uh, I can’t give you my waterskin, but you guys can use it?”

Liz doesn’t use the waterskin, she doesn’t like it. She’s been using her water bottle that she came with. But the waterskin technically doesn’t belong to her, someone else gave it to her, so she can’t give it to them.

The group of three mages -- a young adult, and two teenagers -- thank her again, passing the waterskin around while they eat. Liz sits with them, ignoring the impatient look on Cassandra’s face.

”So, how did you get here?” They ask quietly, offering them a blanket to take.

The three exchange a glance. The oldest begins speaking. “We were traveling to the Conclave. We knew we’d arrive late, but then...”

”Everything was on fire,” the second oldest says, her voice haunted. “Templars were hunting anyone they could find. Mages who turned to blood were chasing anyone they saw. It was chaos.”

”That sounds very harrowing,” Liz replies softly. “I wish I could fix this in one night. For now, you’re welcome to the Inquisition camps that we’ve set up. Please, don’t hesitate. I know it’s scary, but you’re under my protection. I won’t let any harm come to another mage, not so long as I can help it.”

That’s when they realized who she was, and started doing the whole, “You’re the Herald of Andraste!” thing. Which creeped her out.

“I’m just Liz,” they insisted, pulling the mages to their feet from where they had knelt. “Please, I’m no different than I was five minutes ago.”

One of the teenagers, a girl with short almost-black hair, frowns. “But you—you saved us!”

“It’s nothing someone with morals wouldn’t also do,” Liz replies with a strained look on her face, patting the girls hand. “Trust me.”

The girl opened her mouth to protest. “But—“

The oldest mage gave the young girl a stern look. “Enough, Caroline.”

Caroline almost protests but she nods quietly and ducks her head. “My apologies, my lady. I forget myself.”

Liz exhaled sharply and smiled as best as she could. “No need for that, Caroline, was it? I understand wanting a savior. But the real hero is inside every one of us. You can save yourself and people around you by practicing acts of kindness every day.”

Caroline nods. “I-I think I get it. Acts of kindness.”

“Exactly. I do kind things because they’re right, because everyone deserves access to a house, food, running water,” Liz explains, her face lighting up. “Do things simply because you want good for other people. Do things because you know you deserve good as well.”

Varric hollers some feet away and waves a hand. They sigh. “I’ve got to go—works never over. I hope we may meet again one day, and if we do not, Gods be with you, friends. May the blessings of this Maker and the next follow your path.”

The mages and the Herald’s group part ways, journeying forward into the Crossroads in the search for Mother Giselle. During the search, Liz becomes distracted and pulls away from the group.

They notice a nurse struggling with a patient and come to help, frowning down at the patient. They put on their ‘non-cooperating preschooler’ voice and say,

“Hey, what’s the problem?”

Someone on his other side, where the wound is, murmurs, “he refuses the aid of a mage to heal his wound.”

She kneels by his side and shakes her head. “That’s not very nice. That mage could use their energy in any other way, but they’re choosing to help you. It’s okay to be afraid, but right now they’re trying to help. You need to let the mage do their job.”

The wounded man swallows and nods, closing his eyes tightly. She smiles and looks up to find an older Black woman staring at her with soft, kind eyes and flowing red robes. 

“Mother Giselle?”

“Herald of Andraste,” the Mother nods respectfully, a hand outstretched.

Liz looks at the hand with panic, stuck between denying out of not wanting to rely on anyone or accepting to not be rude to one of the only people willing to help them, and in the end she takes the proffered hand, standing.

“Let’s walk together,” it’s not a question, she’s gotten plenty of these types of statements before. She places her hand in Mother Giselle’s and stands. “You spoke with that man,” Mother Giselle comments, the Revered Mother motioning for the young woman to connect their arms as they walk as if they’ve been friends their whole life, before she placed her hands in front of her.

“Oh, that,” Liz shrugs as best she can, wishing she could adjust the hair that tickled the back of her neck uncomfortably. “It was nothing, Revered Mother.”

“You showed kindness to someone in need,” the woman counters, a wise gleam in her eye.

The Herald, under the weight of it, shifts, and deflects. “We are all called to kindness in the hour of another's need. Compassion is vital to survival. Mother Giselle, what do we need to do? Why did you call me here?”

The Revered Mother sighs, the reminder of what’s going on a clear weight on the woman. “People fear what they do not understand. The Inquisition looms in the shadows of great ruins, and thus my fellow clergy members are hasty in their denouncement--they are afraid.”

“But not you?”

“But not me,” the Revered Mother replies softly, halting them and turning to face the young woman. “I think there is much good the Inquisition can do. Go to the Grand Clerics in Val Royeaux, all that remains— try to convince them. I will travel to Haven.”

“You want me to go where?” Liz’s mouth moves before her brain can yell _stop_ , immediately blushing and ducking her head. “I-Sorry. I mean, do you really think that’s such a good idea?”

Mother Giselle chuckles, patting the young woman's hand. “They are all bark and no bite, my dear. Do not fear them.”

With Mother Giselle smiling so reassuringly, she can only nod with something just short of confidence. Hopefully, following her advice, this will work out.

Mother Giselle sees her to the edge of the wounded camp, pointing her in the direction of people who need help, wishing her blessings and then returning to her work.

Liz put her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket and snuggled into the scarf she had acquired, quickly locating her... _associates_? _Friends_? While thinking over Mother Giselle’s words.

“So? What’d she say?” Varric asks before Cassandra can get to it, earning himself a glare from the Seeker. Myra snickers, _also_ earning her a glare from the Seeker, which makes her snicker disappear.

 _That_ earns her a knowing grin from Varric, but she glares back.

Varric turned his attention back to the Seeker and shrugged at Cassandra apathetically in response, giving the apple in his hand a light toss upward before he caught it and took a loud, obnoxious bite, bound to annoy Cassandra. Which, it did.

“ _Ugh_.”

Myra stifled a smile, coming up to Liz and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

Liz shrugs, shuffling her feet and kicking around dirt. “Said we should travel to the Capital to see the Grand Clerics.”

Solas swears quietly under his breath while Cassandra raises her eyebrow high. Varric shakes his head.

Liz sighs, “Listen, Leliana said Mother Giselle is trustworthy. And Mother Giselle said the Clerics are more bark than bite.”

Cassandra grumbles before nodding her assent and sighing. “Is there anything to do in the area?”

Liz takes out a bound book. “Follow me.”

From there, Liz leads them to Corporal Vale, which then ends up leading them to a string of people who need help; a man whose wife needs medicine, a hunter, Whittle, and a Healer who needs elf root.

“Did you get all those tips on where to go from Mother Giselle?” Varric asks as they’re returning and she’s putting the book away, his head tilted to the side.

She freezes and then inclines her own head. “... yeah. She pointed me in the direction of everything.”

Later, when they return to the Outskirts camp, she leaves. Not forever, just to get some air. In the woods alone, her breathing evens the most it has since she arrived.

The wind and the setting sun creeping through the trees feels wonderful on her skin. Her pendant rests on her collarbone and she spends some time just breathing and admiring the world around her before picking up a trail intuitively, surprised at her lucky pick in direction and the find of deer tracks on the ground.

She stalks the deer for a long time, simply appreciating its quiet beauty and grace. It reaches a clearing with golden afternoon sunlight coming down on it and she raises her bow.

She doesn’t know if her Gods are with her here, but she can hope. Just like the coin. She can only hope it made its way to Charon, and that he will levy it for more souls to cross. _Maybe Thedas currency translates for more,_ she thought, but doubted it. A coin was a coin, the restless dead restless dead.

Just for a moment, they think they feel a soft guidance on their hands and elbow, a soft, warm wind rustling by their ear like a whisper. They let the bow string go and almost for a second, they think they see gold wrapped around their hands, and they whisper, “Artemis Elaphebolos, guide me,” as they release it.

The arrow flies, tendrils of the blessing disappearing as it finds its target. It sinks into the deer's chest, right under its shoulder and pierces the heart. The hart jumps, kicks, and then falls still on the ground. A gentle, proud feeling fills them before leaving them entirely.

There are tears in their eyes and she smiles, pressing their hand over their heart. “Thank you, Goddess. This will help feed them.”

When she returns to camp with the carcass dragging behind her in pain and tired, Cassandra jumps up immediately to scold her, noting the shaking in her limbs even as she flicks her knife out of her belt. Myra stands up slower, sighing at the Herald and her insistence on independence.

Varric seems rather impressed, noting different things about her for his notes as the firelight flicks across her; standing in front of the firelight with smudges of dirt on her cheeks and forehead, brown eyes tired, her stance firm but hands resting on her hips. Stray wisps of baby hair fall rebelliously into her face out of the tail she tied it into.

“Woah, you took that down?” He smiles as he writes, looking up to glance at the hart.

“You should have brought someone with you,” Cassandra admonishes, looking over the large animal.

Myra nods, coming to check her kill out. “Nice shot, too. But for future reference, I would’ve gone with you.”

Liz remains nonchalant, turning her attention to the deer. “This was easier. Either way, it’ll help feed the refugees. Thanks, though.”

Solas looks up over what he’s reading and wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to dress it here?”

“I was thinking a suit might look nice on it,” she replies a bit snappily to his blank look before dropping the tone just as quickly. “Yes, I’m going to skin it here. Makes it easier to get to the refugees when I’m done. Plus, if anyone wants the organs...”

“Herald, I’ve been meaning to inquire about--”

“The crossroads?” She interrupts, having been thinking about it all afternoon. “No idea what that was. Never seen the symbol, and, I wasn’t an archer before this, so… not something that happened before, either.”

He hums. "Interesting... You've never done that before?"

She snorts. "I've never done a lot of things before. That probably being on top of the list."

He returns to whatever it was he was doing, and Liz turns back to the deer... hart... whatever they're called here. She bows her head over the deer and begins to pray, eyes closed.

When she’s finished, she murmurs, “hear, blessed Gods, and accept my prayer. Artemis, deer-slayer, far-shooter, with the golden-bow, mistress of dogs, I honor you and thank you for this bounty.”

With that, she pats the still-warm deer once and gets to work, gagging every now and then as she gets up to her elbows in gore.

She had gagged to the point of tears when she was washing off in the stream, bits of flesh and fat clinging to her fingernails. The texture alone was enough to drive her insane, but the idea of it? The metallic, earthy smell?

_Fuck. Thedas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let me know what you like and dont like bc like im including stuff i would adapt/do now, but not like that because im not in that type of hell. but like i would hold dearly onto my faith and i like to think they would be with me.
> 
> feedback is much appreciated. excited to get into the meat of things <3


End file.
